Octogirl: the Story of a Two-Tentacled Sidekick
by rememberyourcosmicroots
Summary: I've always wanted to be a superhero. Superheroes did things that us normal blokes could only dream about, and it felt for a long time that I could only ever hope to be one. I mean, how was I supposed to get powers, anyway? I was just your everyday human. But there's a time and place for everything, and my time came when I least expected it, from the most unlikely source.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I'm new to this website, and this is my first brand-spanking-new story that I'm sharing. I figured it needed a bit of explanation first, though, yeah?**

 **I designed my character as a sidekick of Spider-Man, but like any good superhero, she needs some backstory first. Some explanation. So there won't be any Spider-Man for a while. (I think the until first two chapters, though he will be mentioned and have a cameo-style appearance.)**

 **Also, this is set before Spider-Man: Homecoming and doesn't follow the events of that movie.**

 **Anyway . . .**

~oOo~

When you live in New York, you understand, come to terms with, and accept that superheroes and large, looming threats from all sorts of different people and things are going to be a daily part of your life, good or bad. They're going to affect you.

And while there sure is a lot of hate for masked people in general, superheroes aren't so much the problem as the destruction they cause. That's what people have the issues with, not the actual superheroes themselves, which, if you ask me, makes absolutely zero sense.

"Oh, no, one time, Hawkeye crushed my petunias while saving the world from certain doom, so I'm quite against all superheroes now!"

That sorta thing.

But destruction's natural, I say. You can't build things up if you don't break them down first.

Or maybe I'm just defending the Avengers because I've had a crush on them.

 _All_ of them.

Anyway, I never quite realized how much I respected and admired these heroes until I came into contact with the people that absolutely and passionately hated them, for whatever reason. Now hating Captain America, that I could see, because of all the crap he's caused lately. But all the others? Including that newbie, Spider-Man? Whhhhy? What did they do to you?

In fact, I had an Social Studies teacher who, the first day of class, marched in and wrote on the board in big, tall letters, _DEBATE: ARE SELF-PROCLAIMED "SUPERHEROES" HELPING OR HURTING NEW YORK AND THE REST OF THE WORLD? OR ARE THEIR DESTRUCTIVE TENDENCIES COSTING AMERICA TOO MUCH MONEY?_

It was a very big chalk board.

But, as it turned out, 'debate', meant that anyone could stand up to the teacher and argue him, but the only point you could argue was that superheroes were good, and he was firmly on the opposing position. The whole class was a clever ploy to make kids think superheroes were doing more harm than good, and because he was prepared and we were not, you can imagine who won these debates.

So, in a little act of defiance, I dropped the class the next day.

Either way, whether you liked them or you hated them, superheroes were hugely a part of everybody's lives at this point, and not just us New Yorkers. And I think the moment I realized I wanted to _be_ one of these woefully hated and wonderfully celebrated heroes was during the Incident, which was just a nickname for suburban moms who didn't like to talk about aliens raining hellfire on our city. There hadn't been any known superheroes at the time except for Iron Man, and the essentially folk tale of Captain America from the 1940's. So it wasn't on the top of my to-do list before then.

Actually, when the whole thing had gone down and the Chitauri attacked, I'd been eleven and was asleep in my room, taking a well-deserved mid-afternoon nap instead of doing homework. My older brother Spencer had burst into my room, shook me awake, and demanded we leave Queens.

"Why?" I'd demanded right back, which, in the moment, was a fair reaction.

"We're being attacked by aliens!" he'd exclaimed, yanking the covers clean off my bed.

My brother had always loved superheroes too, but he liked the more _realistic_ ones, as he called them. People that worked for what they got, that weren't given powers or inherited a ton of money. (He did appreciate Tony Stark's brains, though, and always had a soft spot for him.) These people, in his mind, were doctors, lawyers, scientists, and the good politicians. Those sorts of people.

"Seriously, Maeve, this isn't the time for your stupid recklessness. We need to go. I've got a friend in Bronx who said we could stay at his place until this whole thing blows over. It should be far enough away. C'mon." My brother tugged me from the bed. I didn't even have time to grab a charger for my phone.

There was a slight problem in becoming a superhero, I came to realize. I counted up the ones I knew about—which, once I did, wasn't as many as I thought there were—and, statistically, you had to be one of the following if you wanted to get anywhere in the superhero game. You could either be rich, super smart, super powerful, a demigod, a mutant, a super spy, or knew any of the prior examples. It also helped if you were a combination of two or more.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, I was _not_ any of these things.

For example, me and my brother's parents, back when Spencer was seven and I was barely three months old, divorced. My mom left us with my dad and went off to do drugs in Europe, something I found out from Spencer, who found out from who-knows-where. My dad, the ass, realized he couldn't handle the pressure of being a single parent and gave us up for adoption before fleeing to Florida to fish and drink beer. We didn't have any relatives, nor did we want to go to them if they were there—if they were anything like our actual parents, a restraining order had a much better ring to it.

So, me and my brother grew up around nuns in a Catholic orphanage, leaving us with questionable beliefs in religion and no chance an emancipation until my brother turned eighteen—which was about four years ago—and then proceeded to _technically_ adopt me. (Technically, because . . . well, I'll let you figure that out on your own. I'm sure you're smart enough.) Now, we live in a too-small apartment off of a too-small trust fund given to us by a guilty-yet-absent father until Spencer gets his bachelor's and becomes a doctor or a lawyer or another one of his realistic superheroes.

On the plus side, though, most superheroes don't have parents anyway.

So, rich, I am not. I don't think I've had more than twenty dollars to my name in my entire existence.

I'm not super powerful either, which while being a total bummer, is kind of self explanatory. If it helps, I once tried to jump off of the orphanage's roof, following my then-fourteen-year-old brother who was dressed like Captain America. I was dressed like Mary Poppins and was holding an umbrella, because, let's be real folks, sexism is present in this day and age.

I ended up breaking my ankle. End of story.

I am _not_ super smart. The above story alludes to that, but I'm a B student only because I was raised by nuns. (I still have the scars on my knuckles.) But, a genius? Nope. If you're looking for a genius, go talk to my poindexter of a brother. He's as close as you're going to get in this family.

What's next? Demigod, did I say? Well, I'm not the daughter of a god and a human, I'm the daughter of a druggie and an alcoholic who's addicted to moonshine and trout. And with the way my life's going so far, I don't think I'm going to reach divine status once I die.

I'm not a mutant, either. I think I got it that baptised out of me.

A super spy? Oh, shit. My cover's been blown.

So, yeah. Not a superhero, and no potential to be one. No superpowers, nothing special about me.

It seemed as if I was stuck.

"MOVE!" my brother demanded, slamming his hand on the steering wheel. He couldn't back up, couldn't turn around—we were officially stuck in gridlock on the I-678, while aliens raced over our heads. It was the worst traffic I'd ever seen. We hadn't moved in over twenty minutes. And this wasn't the sort of thing like when you get a tornado warning and are told to go to your basement, but the tornado doesn't get anywhere close to you, and your house isn't even missing a shingle. No. This was in our faces, whizzing over our heads, raining down like the scariest type of hail I've ever seen.

I, at the time—like any sane little kid—began to cry.

"Oh, no, don't worry, Mae," Spencer had said, trying to keep his voice even. He was still new to the whole being-an-adult thing, and up until that moment, had been doing _really_ well. "Everything's going to be fine. Seriously."

Famous last words, though, right? Just as my brother leans over to give me a comforting side-hug, something explodes far behind us. To this day, I'm still not sure what happened, whether an alien shot at someone or if it crash-landed into a couple of cars, but it rocked the entire street like an earthquake.

Either way, we both locked eyes, Spencer's filled fear, and mine probably mocking that.

"Get out of the car," he said quickly, and I did not need to be told twice. In probably the quickest few minutes of my entire life, we scrambled out of the crappy volkswagen, and start heading with the crowd forward towards the Bronx. Everyone was abandoning their cars without a second thought, which, now that I look back on it, seems pretty stupid, because we never saw that car again, and we still can't afford a new one. There was even a similar crowd heading the opposite way on the other side of the highway, heading _into_ Queens, thinking it was safer there. Both sides couldn't be right about which borough was going to protect us more, I remember thinking. One of us had to be wrong.

A scary thought was that we were _both_ wrong and we were _both_ walking towards certain death.

Spencer grabbed my arm at that moment, I remember very clearly, urging me to go faster, because the faster we moved, the less chance we'd be in a place where one of these high-flying alien ass-grabbers would be able to get us.

"We're going to be fine," he promised, squeezing my wrist, and I believed him, because he was my big brother, and if protective big brothers lie, then what do we have in this world?

Suddenly, there was a roar, and a monster the size of my apartment building drifted through the sky, a tiny speck of bright green riding on its back.

"What the hell is that?!" someone next to us yelled, and it was seconds before all hell broke loose.

The big monster came right for the road, floating through the air like when you hold a dog over water and it thinks it's swimming. The green speck on its back got bigger and bigger and bigger until it was obvious it was a human, or, at least, human-shaped. A green monster with purple shorts.

 _I'm going to die_ , I thought, just as the thing crashed into the road in front of us, about fifty feet away. The monster with a much smaller monster on its back cut through I-678 like it was butter and the thing was a hot knife.

Suddenly, the idea of going into the Bronx didn't sound so good.

People began to scream, and my brother wrenched me off my feet, taking off back towards Queens.

It was an incredible feat, him carrying me, because at eleven years old, I was by no means small, and by eighteen years old, my brother was by no means a bodybuilder, but adrenaline does things to people.

And that's about all I remember, personally. I think I blocked it out, or at least, that's what Spencer tells me, and he's the one studying to be a lawyer. He said that it was so traumatic that my brain decided to forget about it. But the rest of the story, according to him, is that we managed to make it to a bank as soon as we got off the highway. We hid in the vaults there with a bunch of other people until given the all-clear by police. Neither of us saw another alien after that. Overall, an anti-climactic story to what promised to be a death-defying adventure.

But you know the rest of their story. The story of the Avengers, that is. All of them, including the Hulk—which I realized was the mystery green guy we saw—saved the day and the entirety of New York, even when the government launched a missile directly at our cowering faces.

After that, after all these amazing heroes popped up during a disastrous event to save our sorry asses, _that_ was when I knew I wanted to be one. Once the whole event cleared up and me and my brother got back to our apartment, I went straight to our only computer and researched the hell out of the Avengers. The internet had basically _exploded_ with information and conspiracy theories, and I went as far in as I could go. I discovered video clips of all the heroes during the fight, and found all six of them and their names. Captain America, Iron Man, Hulk, Hawkeye, Black Widow, and Thor. Damn.

There were theories about their lives, their pasts, where Thor came from, who made the Hulk, how Captain America came back to life . . . there were so many intricate stories, no one could possibly read them all, and I was no exception.

Turns out, though, I only had to wait a few more years to learn more, because as my life progressed, so did the Avengers. The Scarlet Witch came into play, as did Vision, Falcon, War Machine, and the Winter Soldier. (I read a conspiracy theory that the Winter Soldier was actually Bucky Barnes, Steve Roger's best friend from when they were kids. Crazy.)

Something happened in Russia that I didn't follow too closely on, (my brother took my computer and phone so I could study for some old test that I don't even remember), because even though it was an end-of-the-world type event, my homework was _so_ much more important.

Soon after, a new vigilante appeared, one that few people were prepared for. Self-declared Spider-Man.

And _boy_ , did people hate him. He looked like a menace, that was for sure, with his red hoodie and odd goggles and Spandex, but he was stopping criminals. He showed up before the police did, whether it was stopping a bank robbery, or 'arresting' a petty criminal, or . . . fighting Captain America in Germany?

That one took me by surprise. He was there, wearing a brand-spanking-new suit and battling alongside Iron Man as they fought good ol' Cap and his team. The footage from the security cameras at the airport got leaked from the fight, God knows how, and suddenly, Captain America wasn't your favorite Avenger anymore, and if he was, you should expect _vicious_ ridicule from your fellow peers.

Not that I got ridiculed, but, you know . . .

Imagine my surprise when I got to high school and they've still got a Captain America fitness challenge DVD, complete with the promise to make it 'look like you got injected with Cap's serum!'. It was just another name for the Pacer test, let's admit.

Anyway, that's where I am now. In high school, freshman year, with a limited amount of friends and no real motivation to do my work. I, Maeve Murdock, was stuck in a rut.

My only friend was a girl I met on the first day of school, in anatomy, when we got assigned lab partners.

"I'm Mary Jane," the girl, with red hair brighter than my oh-so-bleak future said, extending her hand. I noticed immediately how manicured her nails were, with perfect little French tips. I wasn't jealous, per se, but . . . no, yeah, I was totally jealous. That type of perfection only existed for fake reality shows and photoshopped magazine covers.

I swallowed my resolve, though. "Maeve," I replied, ignoring her hand. "I'm new."

"Can't tell," she said with a smile. Even her _teeth_ were perfect. "Everyone's new here, technically, what with it being the first day and all."

"Fair enough."

"You any good at all . . . this?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I'm not squeamish, if that's what you mean." The teacher said that it was a mostly lab year, and that meant . . . bum, bum, bum. Dissecting.

"I am." She shuddered. "If we've got to touch anything to do with eyes, I'm throwing up, I don't care about my grade. That shit's nasty."

MJ, as she asked to be called, was a good friend, if a chatty one. She immediately declared me quiet and introverted, and that meant that she would 'take you under my wing, Mae'. Which, I learned, earned me a spot at her lunch table with her friends from middle school that still unceremoniously stuck together.

"They're all awesome," she promised during Algebra. "Seriously. There's Gwen, Kate, Peter, and his friend, Ned. I don't really know Ned, but he's a sweet guy. You'll love them all." She listed her head. "Or maybe not. I haven't quite figured you out yet."

"Oh, yeah?" I asked. "You got anything so far?"

She shook her head and blew a bubble. "Not really. But the school year's young."

I laughed, and she grinned. Maybe I _was_ tucked under her wing, but seeing MJ's star status thanks to her drama credits, even at a freshman level, I decided it wasn't a bad place to be.

Halfway through the school year, I still didn't know how I was going to be a superhero, just that more than ever I wanted to be one. But it seemed like a ridiculous aspiration, like being an actress with no talent or a singer with no voice. I had no way to do it, but I just wanted to _help_ people. More than anything. And not in the sense of volunteering, or something trivial like that. Gwen, I knew, did a lot of volunteering—she missed a lot of lunch days because she was off on a field trip or meeting with student council. But that wasn't what I wanted to do.

If I couldn't be a proper superhero, (hence my list from before), than maybe I _could_ help the proper ones. I would be the Robin to someone's Batman. And it wasn't hard to figure out who I wanted to Robin, because I sure didn't have many options.

"What're you thinking about, Mae?" MJ teased, setting down her lunch tray next to mine.

I shrug as Peter and Ned take their seats. "Nothing. Actually, that new superhero—"

"Spider-Man?" Ned broke in, glancing at his friend and winking. "Oh, man, Spider-Man's the best."

Peter just smirked, turning to his food. He was about as quiet as I was.

"Um, yeah, actually."

MJ rolled her eyes as she began to peel her orange. "Don't get them started, Mae. Sometimes it's better to keep some things to yourself."

"You're one to talk," I replied lightly, nudging her with my elbow before picking up the slice of garlic bread and squeezing it, letting the excess butter drip off like a wet sponge before taking a tentative bite.

"Eeewwww," Kate whined, slipping into the chair next to mine. "I'm glad I went with the chicken salad."

"Yeah." Gwen appeared behind me with her lunch tray, the unfortunate spaghetti and meatballs right on top. "But misery loves company, so . . ."

"Okay, never mind that," Ned insists. "Why are you thinking about Spider-Man, Mae?"

I shrugged. Besides the whole thing being embarrassing to talk about, I couldn't reveal my plan yet, not before I had a chance to execute. And like they couldn't laugh at me immediately. "No reason."

MJ smirked and nudged my shoulder. She loved messing with Ned, I'd come to realize. It mostly consisted of saying something absurd and watching him try not to implode. My favorite was when she tried to explain to him how Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia should've been together, even _after_ they found out they were siblings.

"Oh, come _on_!" Ned groaned. "Everybody around here thinks they're lame now."

"Because they _are_ ," Gwen cuts in. "Especially that Spider-Man kid. They're a menace to society. Why can't they just let the police do their jobs? It's just so . . . unnecessary."

Gwen's father was the police chief for the NYPD, so lectures about the disgrace that vigilantes brought to our fine city were on a daily schedule, at least for her. Most of the time she was joking about it, because she knew her father was high-tempered and hot-headed. But . . . it was like muscle memory. Before she ever knew what was popping out of her mouth, she was mimicking her dad.

Ned shook his head. He knew the same things that I did, and knew there wasn't any point in arguing. "I'm so disappointed in you, Gwen."

"Yeah, well . . ." Gwen stirred the spaghetti with her spork.

And that was how the rest of the year went for us, our group of weird mismatched friends. Gwen was the prissy, preppy girl, who was aiming to be valedictorian. Ned was nerdy and loud, Peter was nerdy and quiet. MJ was loud and gossipy and popular and actress-y. Kate was nice, quiet, and also popular. And me? I was just quiet and angry. We were all either slightly or drastically different, but it worked out. I was content, at least in my friend group.

But, like any tragic superhero story, that all changed one fateful day.

It was March, and I remember it being sunny, because, let's face it, we might not be the Windy City, but no one expected anything but rain, sleet, or snow until April.

MJ, that day, asked me if I wanted to go shopping after school. There was a new outdoor mall that'd just opened, and Mary Jane wanted to celebrate both the nice weather and a shopping center that didn't smell like B.O. and buttered popcorn and actually had an Victoria's Secret.

I declined, because shopping wasn't really my thing, and I had an English essay to do, but more than anything I wish I'd gone that day. At least in the first couple weeks after the whole accident, I did. Turns out it'd be the best thing that ever happened to me. Blessings in disguise, and all that.

Still, I call this Big Mistake #1.

School was normal, on that oh-so-fateful day. Lectures were painfully boring, lunch was bad, boys were assholes and girls were bitchy. My locker got jammed for the fifth time in two days, and Gwen gave an assembly speech on the importance of studying early for final exams. How she's already entrusted to do this at a freshmen level is beyond me.

"We all know the only one that's going to listen to her advice is her," MJ whispered to me as we heard her power point about eating a balanced breakfast.

Kate smacked her in the back of the head like some old Italian mom, and told her to be nice.

I told Kate just what I thought, and Mary Jane laughed so loud Mr. Porter himself asked her to leave if she couldn't control herself.

When I got home, Spencer was sat on our only couch—one we only possess because we grabbed it from a curbside—with our laptop propped up on his lap and every other possible place to sit covered with papers, papers, papers. He had a pen behind his ear and a pencil in his mouth.

And he looked exactly how I left him at seven o'clock this morning.

"You are the epitome of geeky," I declared, tossing my backpack to the side and kicking off my shoes. "Like, seriously. Have you been there all day? Have you eaten? Have you peed? Have you _showered_?"

He glanced up, flashing a innocent smile. "You're home early."

"I'm home on _time_ ," I correct. "It's two thirty."

Spencer waved a hand like it didn't matter. Like he hasn't lost all constructs of time, and if he has, it's just another thing.

"So . . . how was school?" I asked, mimicking any cliche mom from the movies.

Spencer glanced up at me. "Okay, actually, before you make fun of me, Mae, it was totally awesome. I'm planning on taking half of my classes online next year, so they'll require no in-class attendance, which means I can spend more time on my other classes, maybe pick up a few extra shifts . . ." Spencer grinned wildly. "This is the most productive I've felt in ages."

I couldn't help but laugh. "'Kay, Steve Urkel."

"Yeah, yeah. Get on your homework, okay? Aren't exams coming up?"

I sighed audibly. My brother, bless his heart, is a great brother/parent/legal guardian, and I really didn't mind his badgering about my grades and my homework, because it came off as endearing . . . _most_ of the time. But when he showed me his sleep-deprived eyes and his lack off . . . well, having _fun_ , that was not something I wanted to do. I was not for all-nighters when they didn't include at least _one_ round of Monopoly.

"What're we doing for dinner?" I ask instead. Anything was better than talking about freakin' final exams, and my brother probably missed both breakfast and lunch.

Spencer just shrugged. "You want food already?" His attention has already gone back to the laptop's screen.

"For dinner, dumbass. I'm ordering pizza."

This was Big Mistake #2, I suppose. But is pizza ever really a mistake? Well, I guess if you're one of those people that puts pineapple on it, then yeah, it's definitely a mistake, but I digress.

"Yeah, well, we can't afford to deliver. If you want pizza, you're going to have to walk to Aurelio's and get it yourself. Also, no anchovies. That was a shit move last time." Spencer narrows his eyes at the screen, not even looking up as he reels off his demands.

"You needed more vegetables in your blood," I argue.

Spencer pauses, before glancing up. "Vegetables?"

My mistake hits me like a ton of bricks, but in every other good sibling banter, you don't back down. Even when you've said stupid shit. "Yes," I said, puffing out my chest a little bit.

"Oh, dear God, Mae. Go study. Anchovies are _fish_ ," he says, almost pleadingly. "Very common saltwater fish with one hundred and forty-four subspecies. C'mon."

"Yeah, but what's there scientific name? Or—what's it called?—their higher classification?" I ask, heading for the phone.

Spencer barely even hesitates. "Engraulidae and . . . Clupeiformes, I believe," he says. "Any other questions, dear sister?"

"How the _hell_ do you know that?" I demand. "Seriously, Spence, that's not normal. Not even a little bit." I start dialing the number I know by heart. "This is exactly why you don't have a girlfriend."

"It's not like you're having much luck in that area, either," Spencer replies.

"Yeah, 'cause I'm not looking for a girlfriend—Hello?"

"Thank you for calling Aurelio's," the girl on the other end says, showing no signs she heard me, or maybe she's just being nice. "What can I get you?"

I glare at Spencer as he clamps a hand over his mouth to stop laughing.

I give my order, no anchovies or other surprises added. I can be mean at a later date, I suppose. Plus, Spencer's sitting right there, and that'll ruin all the fun. "For pickup at seven o'clock, please."

"Sure. Is that all?" the lady on the other end asks. Her name's Rosie, I know. I also know she's the daughter of the owner, Anton—me and Spence have been going to Aurelio's for years. It's a little safe haven, because the pizza's cheap, and it's got the best food in the entire country.

Yeah, you heard me. Throw down, Chicago. Anton's mustache and dough-twirling skills would be enough to have you shaking in your boots _any_ day.

"That's all," I reply, and she tells me that it'll be blah blah blah much, then thanks me again for calling their restaurant. As if I would go anywhere else.

I hang up, and in the short conversation, Spencer's zoned back out into his work. With a sigh, I head to my room to do homework—excuse me, take a nap—and wait out the time. I text Mary Jane, who just replies that if I'm going to be a 'fuddy-duddy' then I should stop texting and send the Social Studies notes once I take them. Then she sends me a picture of Gwen, Kate, and her smiling in front of the mall's outdoor fountain.

 _Seems fun,_ I reply.

 _It is,_ MJ's response is immediate. _Should've come, Mae. Tsk, tsk . . ._

I don't respond, instead do what I've set myself up for—I take out my astronomy binder and settle in for a night-long trial of studying diligently.

It lasts a whole half hour until I've somehow started watching videos on my phone, unsure about what this has to do with frog anatomy, but _Top Ten Best Survivor Blindsides_ is a much more interesting title than anything that has to do with science.

"MAEVE!" Spencer shouts from down the hall. "I can hear Jeff Probst from here! Do your goddamn homework already!"

"If you keep yelling, we're going to get evicted!" I holler right back, but set down the phone.

Whatever. Parvati and Russell can wait. I flip back open my binder and settle in.

Three hours later, as requested, I've sent MJ the Social Studies notes, finished my essay, did my math, etc., etc., etc. . . . and I've decided I deserve a reward.

"I'm going to get the pizza," I tell Spencer. I grab some money from our secret safe, which is actually just a shoebox with a sticker of a padlock on it covered with a space blanket underneath Spencer's bed.

"Remember to tip!" my brother calls back, and I race out, ducking past my coat and out the door.

Big Mistake #3: Leaving the coat. Why, though, you ask? Well, it wouldn't be suspense if I didn't suspend things, so I'll tell you later.

I head out into the nice, polluted New York air. Now, don't get me wrong, Forest Hills is a great place. It's a big town, and the school's not too shabby. Me and Spence have got the best apartment we could hope on our income. But New York's New York. We've got rats the size of sewer drains and pigeons too fat they can't fly. Our apartment is in one of the shittiest neighborhoods in the whole of NYC. There's only so much positivity you can spin into a situation, you know?

Recently, even, we've had a bit of problem with gangs springing up, left and right. Spider-Man's only one dude. Even a high-flying, web-slinging, ass-kicking superhero can only do so much by himself.

Hence my wanting to join the tough fight.

It takes me roughly ten minutes to get to the parlor, and in another five I've gotten our order and I'm back out the door, heading home.

This is where it gets interesting.

I was off, daydreaming about scaling skyscrapers with Spider-Man, (I think I was developing a little crush), when I nearly bump into a guy standing in middle of the sidewalk.

"Excuse me," he says. It's not meant to be taken politely. Immediately, I'm snapped out of my blissful trance and back into reality. He's a leerer, this one. He towers over me even at my five-foot-nine, and if I wasn't a naturally paranoid person, I'd be paranoid by now. The man—I think his nickname just _has_ to be Lanky, because if not that, then something far, far more offensive— _Lanky_ , is wearing all black clothes that just hang off his skin, not really doing much for his complexion. He's sagging, but even if he wasn't, I'm sure it would still look like he was. He's skinny, Maeve, we get it.

"Yeah, my bad," I reply, and shift to move around him. It was my fault, after all.

He follows.

Of course.

"Where are you going?" he asks, leaning in slightly. He's got sharper-than-knives cheekbones, but that might just be because he looks like he hasn't eaten since Thanksgiving.

"Is that really any of your business?" I demanded, turning around to head the other way. I guess I'd take the long way around. It's not what Spider-Man would do in the situation, but I tried not to focus on that. Like I needed another reminder about how disappointing my life had been so far. Instead, I focused on the pizza. Spencer would kill me if his pizza was cold—or worse, smushed. I needed to get back soon.

Suddenly, though, there's another two guys in front of me. Three guys versus one girl. I must be a real threatening threat. I turn back around slowly, watching them all with a wary eye until they're out of view and I'm facing the first guy again.

"Oh, yeah? Why don't you take a walk with us first?" Lanky says, biting his lip before glancing at his friends.

"Um, no, that's okay. I really need to get going." I feel like a modern-day Red Riding Hood.

"Let's take a walk," one behind me says not-so-nicely, placing his hand on my shoulder. His fingers feel like tiny sausage rolls, so he's automatically earned himself the nickname of Beefcake, for story's sake.

"Slow down there, man," I say with a slight laugh, even though a blind man could see there's nothing funny about the situation. I slip around and back away, right into an alley with no way out. Great. Just great. I stumble for the pocket of my coat, where I keep my handy pepper spra—

My stomach lurches when I fumble empty air instead of a pocket. I don't have my coat.

Now I'm really screwed.

"Don't take another step," I warn, scrambling for my phone, and the pizza falls to the ground, splattering over the pavement in a mess of cheese and pepperoni. Lanky steps over it like it's not even there, keeping his horror-movie-villain pace nice and slow as he corners me in. Beefcake and John Doe are right behind him like good little minions. (John Doe is his name because he had a pretty forgettable face. Plus, my creative skills were overtaken by a single thought: _FEAR FEAR FEAR,_ like a fire alarm going off in my head _._ I know that's not really a thought, but it was all my brain was supplying.)

I yank my phone out of my pocket and immediately go for nine-one-one. Lanky sees this, and like any idiot, tries to grab it from me.

Now, I've never had any self-defense classes. I took karate for two years, but I'm not much of a yeller, so I quit. Whatever way you look at it, I shouldn't have been able to do the things I did. Not really.

But as I've said before, adrenaline does things to people.

My free arm—the one presently not wrestling my phone from Lanky—takes a full-fledged, left-hand swing at a _grown man_ , and I hit him square in the jaw.

He stumbles back.

 _Did I just do that?_ I have time to think, but nothing more before Beefcake's approached me, glaring hard with small, beady eyes. Lanky's screaming profanities, and I just can't believe that _he_ attacks _me_ , and _I'm_ the bad guy.

Unfortunately, a little left-hand swing isn't going to take down Beefcake, and he knows it.

Especially not a Beefcake with a knife.

Where do muggers/bag guys/scary gang people get their weapons, anyway? Baddies R Us? K-Mart? I genuinely want to know. 'Cause I got my pepper spray off of Amazon, and I've only had to use it once to scare off a raccoon.

(Which, funny story. I sprayed it the wrong way, almost got Spencer it the eye, definitely missed the raccoon.)

"Kill that bitch, Ralphie!" Lanky demands, holding his jaw as John Doe examines him. God, what a bunch of losers. Scary losers, but losers nonetheless. I couldn't have been trapped by someone more . . . sinister? A Joker type fellow, maybe? Heath Ledger, anyone? I'd even take a Condiment King right now.

"Nah, that's okay, Beefcake," I tell him honestly. My back bumps up against the concrete wall, cold seeping through my shirt. "I'm invincible, anyway. You can't hurt me."

Beefcake frowns. "I'll kill you, bitch."

"No originality?" I ask back, and he just frowns and snarls, waiting for Lanky to give the official word. "Seriously, man, your buddy _just_ said that. Think of something snappy. Clever, even. Channel some James Bond villain type guy, you know?"

Beefcake pauses, and the thug genuinely seems to _consider_ it, while I consider ways to slip under his arm and past this fat suit without getting grazed. Because, obviously, I'm in this one alone. No one knows where I am, not Spencer, not MJ, not _anyone_ , and even though there's a Spandex-clad superhero strutting around, it's not like he'd actually be out for—

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"

No. Freaking. Way.

No.

Freaking.

Way!

Together, the four of us, me, Beefcake, Lanky, and John Doe, glance up at the sky, and there he is. Scaling between the two buildings, hanging off a web attached to who-knows-where. My hero. My savior.

Spider-Man.

"Oh, thank God," I breathe.

"Shit, man," John Doe mumbles, and he and Lanky take off running.

. . . Right into a mess of cobwebs that just _suddenly_ appear at the end of the alley.

"Shit, man," I hear Lanky swear.

Seriously, do these boys only speak in, like, two phrases and swear words?

Spider-Man drops onto the concrete without a sound. "Guys. Is this anyway to treat a lady?" he asks, before both Lanky and John Doe are stuck to the two apartment building walls bordering our alley.

"See?" I point out to Beefcake. "One-liners. It's not that hard."

Big. Mistake. #4. Provoking the easily provocable. Beefcake, angry at my taunting and the way his night was going—really, how did he expect?—grabs my arm and twists me around in front of him, holding his knife to my throat. Unfortunately, big men, despite the equation of muscle mass to fat, are usually stronger than me.

"Choke on that, bitch," he mumbles, but I give him props for the pun and the one-liner, but I choose to keep my mouth shut now.

Spider-Man spins back around at the sudden movement, making me wonder he actually heard Ralphie talking. He lets out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, c'mon, Jabba. Seriously, dude. Do you see a way that gets you out of the situation that's not going to end up with you going to jail for attempted murder . . ." Spider-Man pauses, and I see the tiniest bit of a shudder. " . . . or actual murder? Put down the knife, okay? Put down the knife."

"Do it, Ralphie!" Lanky shouts, though whether he means to listen to the hero or not, I'm not sure.

Spider-Man, without glancing behind him, raises a hand and fires a line of web. It hits Lanky right in the mouth, and I let out a lopsided grin.

"Let me out," Beefcake decides. "Let me walk away, or I cut this bitch."

"You know, I think the term 'bitch' is being overused . . ."

Spider-Man sends me a look that clearly says _shut up_ , even with the mask, and I do. I can't remember the last time I was this talkative. During a time which I was being held hostage, no less.

"Put the knife down," Spider-Man orders again, holding up a hand placatingly. "Trust me on this one, dude. You don't deserve to go to jail the rest of your life, and she doesn't deserve to die."

Hell yeah, I don't. I'm liking Spider-Man more and more. But I don't say that. I'll thank him later.

"No," Beefcake says slowly, and the hand holding the knife begins to shake. "I-I can't. They'll . . . the cops, they'll . . . I can't . . ."

"Come on, Jabba," Spider-Man begs. He's about five feet away, too far to do anything, but also too close, dangerously close that he still looked threatening.

That's Big Mistake #5. Not that I blame Spidey, of course.

My phone buzzes from the ground where it lays, forgotten. Spencer, I can clearly see, asking where I am. God, I wish I could tell him.

If I ever see him again. I'd let him know I'll pay him back for the pizza, and as crazy as it is, the thought comforts me a little bit.

"I can't go back to jail," Beefcake suddenly decides, making my gaze snap back up.

The knife disappears from my throat. I resist the urge to bolt, though it is very tempting. I want to bolt right to Spider-Man's side. I want to throw that kid a damn parade, right about now. He's a miracle worker! My pizza's screwed to all hell, but he saved my life!

Spider-Man, though, doesn't seem to pleased. "Put the knife down, Jabba, buddy. Just drop it. We'll work something out. Please. It doesn't have to end like this—"

And suddenly, before I can process what my next thought was going to be, I see a flash of a black-clad arm swipe across my vision, right to left, and bright hot and burning pain sears in my throat.

 _He did it._

 _The bastard actually got me._

"NO!" Spider-Man yells, and leaps forward, hand extended as I topple to the ground like a stack of blocks.

I collapse, I _think_ , but mostly I'm just trying to get to my phone. Everything's moving far too fast . . . or far too slow. God, I never knew that pain screwed with your brain so much. But screw with the pain of the brain . . . I mean, it does pain my screw . . .

Shit.

My head hits the concrete. Distantly, in the back of my mind, I feel a pressure on my throat that's not from the pain. It feels hard, like a cast, and I wonder what it is. Spider-Man's web? Because that was a web I saw, right before I fell. My hand grapples blindly, and I touch my throat. My hand comes away touching what feels like a rubber band the texture of silly string mixed with slime. Oh, and blood too, but I focus on the web thingie.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know it can't be as bad as it seems. Because if it was, I'd be dead. It must just be a flesh wound, a scrape. I'll be patched up and home in time for school tomorrow. I just have to wait.

But first, I've got to tell Spencer I'm all right. I scramble for my cell—it buzzes again, another message from my big brother.

I don't even read it. It's some stupid joke about eating more than my fair share of pizza, which, under the circumstances, seems kinda cruel—still, I grab my phone with shaking hands, trying to type out a message, but blood smears the screen and my fingers slip. The phone falls from my hands, and I don't have the strength to pick it back up. I could sleep for a hundred years right about now. I decide, hazily, that I'll try. I close my eyes, wondering where the hell Spider-Man is, and drift off.

~oOo~

"Mae? Maeve, c'mon, wake up, the ambulance is almost here."

I think this is what drowning feels like. Everything is murky, and I can't see the person in front of me. I also feel like I can't get enough air. I'm not even sure my eyes are open, but I squint regardless, trying to make the person floating in front of me focus. It'd be nice if they stopped moving.

I take a wild guess. "Spence?"

"Yeah, I called him, Mae, he's coming. He's super worried about you, okay? Wait until he gets here, please, Maeve, please . . ."

I drifted off again. Let's be real; I deserved the sleep.

And when I woke up, I forgot all about that little conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

**But first, a note.**

 **A little slightly unnecessary explanation for this chapter. I, in the charmed life I live, have never been admitted to a hospital of any sort. (Whaaaaaat?) Yes. I'm deathly afraid of needles, so it's been great. Now that I need the experience, though, it's a nuisance. (Try Googling 'what it's like to be in a hospital'. What comes up is not what I'm looking for, that's for sure.)**

 **So, guess what this means? I'm skipping parts so I don't have too many errors, and the parts I don't skip will be referenced from my grandpa, who's a surgeon. (If you're going to blame anyone, blame him.) Anyway, Maeve will review her experience, as well as explain a few things—but it's going to jump right into her at-home recovery . . . and not-at-home recovery, which is very short.**

 **All errors are mine. (Let me know what you spot! It's like playing I Spy, I promise.)**

 **And with that, we're off.**

~oOo~

I bounced on restlessly on the balls of my feet, sometimes both at once, sometimes back and forth, sometimes left to right. It feels as if I've been doing this forever. My ratty old Converse keep squeaking, but I'm enjoying the noise. It's better than those damn slippers the hospital has been making me wear, even though those _were_ ridiculously comfy. But actual shoes mean walking, and walking means leaving, and leaving means I can walk right out of this hellhole and back home, as soon as Spencer's done signing my release papers.

Sorry if you like hospitals, I guess, though I don't see how you could. It smells weird, the food's bad, and nurses shush you when your brother sneaks your Bluetooth speaker in because you haven't listened to good music in four days, and if you go one more day without good music you might actually just explode—

Whew. It's been an emotional roller coaster of epic proportions. I apologize.

I woke up in St. June's—here—about two weeks ago, the next morning after that oh-so-fateful day I met Spider-Man. (That's how I like to look at it. Not the day I almost died, not the day I got almost-mugged, not the day I got my throat cut . . . you always gotta look on the bright side, I guess.) The doctors, according to my brother, were all like "Whoa, you're awake?! Holy shit!" and immediately started running tests, calling it 'inconceivable!' 'impressive!' and a bunch of other words that start with _i_. Also according to Spence, I was the 'test subject' of a new drug with some long name I couldn't pronounce if I tried. That's why they were so shocked. It was from Oscorp Industries, some super-secret super-high-tech building that produces modern medicine and shit. Hell if I know. But it worked, and dare I say everyone almost seemed _surprised_ at my recovery.

Actually, I wasn't even supposed to be in the hospital that long, but the doctors wanted to run test after test after test. They said I could've been released last week, but whatever. What's another week of my life?

"It was just a test run," Spencer had explained then. "Dr. Sheridan said it was totally safe, and that there was a ninety-nine percent chance of making a—"

"You let them play Operation on me," I argued back. "In ways that weren't necessary!"

Spencer hung his head in shame then, and I felt a little twist of guilt. He really was beating himself up about this whole Beefcake thing—and still is—even though he shouldn't. "Oscorp is paying for everything," he said, and glanced up at me with puppy-dog-eyes.

I blinked. Then blinked again. "Oscorp? Is . . . ? _All_ the bills?" I managed to stutter out. I was under the impression that we were going to be in debt until I was an old lady in a rocking chair.

"Everything," he repeats. "Down to the coffee I buy from the cafeteria."

So, I let him off the hook right then and there. He was mad at himself enough for the both of us and then two more people. He didn't need any more fuel to the flame. I even tried to explain how much it _wasn't_ his fault, but he wouldn't hear a thing I said.

"It was my fault," he insisted. "I know how dangerous it is to go walking by yourself at night, and I let you go so I could study. I picked school over you. I'll never forgive myself for that, Mae."

"I can take care of myself," I lied. Not that it was necessarily a lie; but if past experiences were anything to go by, I was certainly not capable of that.

At the time, Spencer had just sighed and gone to get another coffee—as he now often did to keep himself awake, like he didn't want to miss a moment with me. Which is understandable, I suppose. Even though it's beginning to grate on my oh-so-fine nerves.

"Ready to go?" Spencer asked, coming back from signing my papers, Peggy, my nurse, trailed in behind him.

"I've been ready to go since I got here," I reply.

Spencer cringes. "I'm sorry, Mae—"

I held up a hand. "Apologize again, and I'll be mad at you for real."

From the corner where Peggy's checking my chart, she snorts. Peggy has been the best person in the entire hospital, even over Spencer, who's just been acting like a kicked dog, which was not helping my recovery _at all_. She's super young, which means she's the only one to not treat my like a five-year-old, and bonus points, she thinks I'm her most hilarious patient since she had a guy who could quote _Whose Line is it Anyway?_ on command, and let's be real, there was no way I could ever top that.

"We good?" I ask her.

She laughs. (See?) "Yes, Maeve, you're good."

"Okay." I give her a hug to say good-bye.

"Keep in touch," she reminds.

"I'll friend you on FaceBook," I tell her, and we leave, Peggy's laughter ringing in my ears and following me down the hallway.

Spencer's friend picks us up, and we head home, the bandage on my throat suddenly making me self-conscious. (And itchy, but it's like a cast, except more fragile. In this case, there's no sticking pencils in the space between my throat and the gauze.)

"Home sweet home!" I declare, swinging the door to our apartment open wide, letting it smack the wall.

Spencer follows in behind me, smiling. "This place is _dusty_ ," he comments.

I agree, and head to my room to settle in.

"Mae?"

I turn back. Uh-oh. "Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say, one more time—"

"No, Spence," I sigh. "Let's just go back to normal, okay? I can't do that if you're still apologizing." I pause. "And, also, you should let me go back to school tomorrow."

Spencer's response is immediate, as I knew it would be. "Um, no? The doctor said you need another week off."

"Oh, come _on_!" I whine. "I spent that week in the hospital. I don't need to stay home, bored out of my mind. And what if I spend that week off, and I have to repeat freshman year? I've missed two weeks—I don't think I can afford any more time."

My brother frowns. He's a sucker for schoolwork, and a sucker for me. It was a foolproof argument.

"I don't know, Mae . . ."

Or so I thought.

"Please, Spence? Please? I'm so, so, bored. And you know me. I hate school. I'd only want to go back if I was really, really, desperate. _Please_ ," I beg. I can't remember the last time I've wanted to go to school this much. I don't think I ever have.

"You know what? Fine. Fine!" Spencer tosses his hands in the air. "Go to school. God, Maeve, just . . . you're lucky I love you, you know that? Be grateful."

I nod. "I'm grateful," I reply. I don't get too excited, though, because he'll just snort and say 'never mind', if I do.

But once I get into my room, I dance around a bit. Just a little bit, though. School's not that exciting.

~oOo~

I have a little dilemma.

Albeit it's a small one, but it's a dilemma, all right.

My heart is racing way too fast. Too-too fast. And it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. Was that normal? Because it certainly didn't feel normal.

Who knew standing in the doorframe of my apartment building could cause someone extreme anxiety?

Okay, well, I know the standing part isn't giving me the worry-warts, it's what comes after that's giving me the trouble. Because I just can't seem to get myself to take the next step.

I adjust the straps of my backpack. The normally peaceful walk to school sounds like swimming with sharks.

 _C'mon, Mae, you've got this . . . no one's going to attack you . . . you're a woman of logic! The chances of it happening twice in the span of a month are incredibly low odds . . ._

I'm being ridiculous, I know, and my brain knows it too, but still—even though my whole body is itching to not be late on my first day back, my foot won't move off the last step.

It doesn't help that one of the paramedics attempting to save my life stepped on my phone, breaking it beyond repair, leaving me without a way to call anyone—not like it helped me much last time, but still. It also increased Spencer's worry—when he'd left for work this morning, he'd hugged me just a second too long, and told me that if I really wanted to, I could stay home. He would be okay if I did, and understand why, he'd said.

Hopefully, I'd be able to prove him wrong.

Maybe I could call MJ for a ride? Oh, wait . . . no phone.

Damn it.

Okay. It's like jumping into a cold pool, right? You know it's going to be freezing, but once the initial shock is over, you're left wondering why it took you so long to jump in the first place.

Okay. I need to go to school, need to get an education, need to stop watching the same reruns of _My Strange Addiction_ when I'm bored . . .

I take the first step. There's no celebratory trumpets, but there aren't any alarm bells, either. Pretty underwhelming, I suppose, but considering I've been hyping myself up for the past few minutes, perhaps that's the best thing that could've happened.

The next step comes easier than the first, then the one after that, and soon, I'm strutting down the sidewalk, one hand clinging to my backpack strap, the other tightly gripping the pepper spray in my coat pocket, but still, I'm practically _strutting_.

So, I manage all the way to school, pausing as I approach. It's scary how much happens in two weeks, and how life-changing everything can be. It's also scary how little can happen in that same amount of time. It was nice to go back to the normal, sluggish pace. At least for a little while, and then I was right back on track to becoming Spider-Man's sidekick.

With the determination of my brother working his way through Godel's incompleteness theorem, I head up the gum-stained steps into Midtown High.

As I head to my locker, subconsciously, I finger the floral scarf Peggy had given me as a parting-ways gift—at least, that's what she had called it. I didn't even know there was such a thing—and said that there was not only going to be a raised scar, but some bruising, even after the bandage wasn't necessary—which it still was. So, I guess, scarves are my new thing. Unfortunately, it hadn't covered all the white of the bandage, so I'd decided to go commando and leave the glorified—or was it the other way around?—Band-Aid at home. It was easier to cover that way.

But as I pass the gymnasium, a sound catches my attention and drags me away from my angsty self-esteem problems—the sound of cheering. Immediately, I think it's a pep rally I'm missing—but I quickly realize it's not good, happy, 'go, team!' cheering, it's jeering. Leering jeering, I call it. Not good at all.

I glance around, but no one else is really paying attention to the noise, even though there are several teachers and students milling around, all here slightly early for whatever reason. (I'm here to pick up my work, actually, at Spencer's insistence. While I missed quite a bit of time with my little panic trip, I'm still early compared to the buses.)

So I slip into the gym to see what the fuss is about.

It's Flash Thompson, I see him first, surrounded by a bunch of his cronies-for-hire. If you don't know Flash—his real name's Eugene, which I find hilarious—he's the school's star football player. He's the epitome of one of those high-school movie cliches. It makes sense why he's here. Early practice, and why the rest of the team's with him, but—

But the next person I see lights a little fire in my gut.

It's Peter, nice, quiet, all-too-nice, duck-behind-his-books Parker, blushes-for-no-reason Peter, with the contents of his backpack spilled across the floor, and said backpack tossed a few feet to Flash's right. It makes sense why he's here early too, because he's just that kind of guy. Probably on his way to talking to one of the engineering teachers—MJ had told me she'd caught him dumpster-diving once for metal once—and had gotten interrupted, simply for existing. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught by the wrong people.

Just like I had.

The door behind me falls shut on its own, causing everyone to look my way as the slam echoes.

Peter's eyes wide in surprise. The cronies look kinda scared—oh, no, a tattling girl!—while Flash looks slightly bemused.

I don't say a word. I'll let him make the first move.

"What?" Flash snaps as I just look at him expectantly, my hands still curled into fists around their respective objects. (I won't actually use the pepper spray, but the comfort's there.)

Peter mouths the words _get out_ to me, not looking the least bit scared, just surprised. Shocked, even. Well, good for him, but if he's not going to stand up for himself, then someone has to, and Ned's not here. Not that Ned could stand up for him if he was.

"You here to watch the show?" Flash says sarcastically, gesturing to the empty seats of the bleachers. "Next up: waiting to see if Puny Parker isn't a total _pussy_." The last words are spat in Peter's direction.

God, I _hate_ bullies. Now more than ever. They come in all shapes and sizes, whether it be XXL or just jock-strap athletic.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I demand. My swearing surprises me, and Peter, too.

Flash just thinks it's funny.

"Who are you, anyway?" he asks, and his friends laugh. I recognize most of them as other players on the team, but there's a healthy mix of some from the basketball and baseball teams, too.

I sigh, and approach the group, stepping in the space between Flash and Peter, who both make slight noises of protest. "Doesn't matter," I sigh. "Just walk away, Eugene. Seriously. You haven't done anything worth suspension yet."

Flash rolls his eyes. "I think that's what I'm supposed to say to _you_. Get out of here."

"Oh, yeah? And what's going to happen if I don't?" I reply. Actually, no, correction. I _challenge_. What's one more bruise? It's not going to be another surgery, another creepy test drug from an even creepier company; it's going to be an ice pack and some extra concealer for the next few days. No skin off my back.

Flash pauses, but he doesn't back down. "Back off." He really towers over me.

And oddly enough, I'm not the slightest bit scared.

"Do it. Punch me. I'd love to see you benched for the entire season," I say, my voice low in a tone that surprises even me. When did I get Hulk-type aggressive?

I guess since a Hulk-type got aggressive towards me.

"Maeve . . ." Peter warns from behind me, seconds before I hear another door slam.

"What's going on in here?" the familiar voice of Mr. Porter echoes throughout the big room.

Flash pulls away, and faster than any slippery snake I've ever seen, easily slaps an easy-going smile on his face. "Nothing, sir. Just . . . chatting."

"Didn't look that way to me," Mr. Porter snaps.

I turn away from Eugene. "Oh, hi, sir. I was looking for you, actually. I'm assuming you got my brother's email? About my absence?"

Mr. Porter quickly pales. "Murdock. Yes, of course. Um . . . well, I hope you're doing all right. Let me, um, just see these boys to their coach, and then perhaps you can meet me in my office to discuss your classes?"

I stick on a _I'm-kissing-your-ass_ smile. It's different from Flash's, but similar in concept. "Sounds delightful, sir."

" _Sounds delightful, sir,_ " someone mocks in a high-pitched voice from behind me.

Mr. Porter fumes, his face reddening. "Schmidt, I'll have you benched! Come on, all of you!"

Slowly, the boys file out, Flash last. He flips the pair of us off as he leaves.

I laugh as the door shuts, and turn back to Peter. "Oh, man, I actually thought that dude might sock—"

Peter's arms are suddenly wrapped around my shoulders in what I can only explain as the most awkward, yet well-meaning hug I've ever gotten in my life.

"Are you okay?" I ask him in concern.

Peter laughs and pulls away, holding me at arm's length. "I don't think I've ever heard you talk so much."

"Yeah, yeah." I brush him off with a wave. "You know me. Quiet and angry."

I bend down and start collecting his papers, and Peter follows. "So, um—where've you been? MJ's been kinda freaking out, saying you're dead, so we looked it up because usually that sorta thing makes even some headlines, but still, you weren't answering your phone . . ." he paused. "I mean, obviously I knew you weren't, you know—but, um—she's really worried. We all were."

I winced. "Yeah, um. That's . . . that's . . . it's an issue. I'll explain at lunch, how 'bout? Don't want to tell the story a million times, if that's okay with you."

Peter nods. "Don't worry about me."

I went back to scooping up A+ papers, cringing slightly. Like any good Millennial—actually, did I qualify as a Millennial? I'd have to look it up—I don't remember phone numbers, and I never had much social media to start with. So short of writing her a letter, there was no true way of contacting MJ besides going to her house. Which, of course, I couldn't do because I was strapped to a hospital bed by Peggy, Spencer, and Darryl the security guard, who doubled as Peggy's boyfriend. (He, per Peggy's request, kept a watchful eye from the cameras on the hallway outside my room. Just to be safe.)

But as much as I longed to have someone to talk to besides a bubbly nurse and a sad brother back then, telling MJ now was a reluctant mark on my to-do list.

"So, um . . ." I hold up a stack of papers for Peter to stuff into the remains of his expandable. "This happen often? Flash and his . . . gang? Posse? Entourage?"

Peter cringes now. I guess we're both prodding at subjects that neither of us want to talk about. "It's not a big deal. He doesn't, like, beat me up. It's just crap like this." He holds up his textbook in one hand, and then the cover of that same textbook in the other. "But it's not a big deal. I know he has stuff to deal with, too, so . . ."

I nod, though I don't really understand. In this case, or in any case, telling people helped. Or getting proof helped. Or having your would-be killer's face burned into the back of your eyelids, so that every time you closed your eyes, or even tried to get some sleep, he'd be right there with his sausage fingers and black clothes—

I suppose the upside is that I gave 'the most descriptive description of a suspect I've ever heard'—a quote from the sketch artist that drew up Beefcake's face for me, though they still haven't caught him yet.

"You shouldn't have done that," Peter says quietly, interrupting the noise of shuffling papers and snapping me out of my thoughts.

I pull back. While I didn't expect a reward and a round of congratulatory applause, I didn't expect _that_ , either. "Done what?" I ask, though I know exactly what. There's nothing else he could be talking about.

Peter blushes. "Done _that_ ," he reiterates. "I can handle myself."

Funny. That's the bullshit I gave Spencer no more than a week ago, and guess who couldn't walk outside their front door this morning?

I stand up and hand him the last of his papers. "Yeah, well . . . doesn't really matter if you can, but if you will. And you weren't going to, I could tell."

"And you would've fought him? For me?" he asks, accepting the pile.

I shrug. "I think I would've done it if the roles were reversed, too, if that helps, just maybe not so mean." I laugh at my own joke. "It's just . . . I'm . . . I'm sick of this shit, to be honest, of people doing mean things for bad reasons to . . . to then just go about their lives like they _didn't_ do a mean thing for a bad reason . . . and they get away with it, so they think they can do it again, maybe meaner, maybe for worse reasons . . ." my voice is rising high, maybe an octave or so, and I feel the pressure of tears in my eyes, so I stop. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Peter says. "I'll see you in Social Studies, okay?"

I nod, and wait until he's left the gym before heading to Mr. Porter's office.

~oOo~

"Well, it's up to the teachers to decide whether or not to exempt you from tests and units that you missed, but overall, I'd say you can expect to keep your grades up at your usual level," Mr. Porter explains. "We're just all glad to have you back safe, Maeve, and if there's anything we can do to help, perhaps sign you up for an appointment with a counselor or a social worker about—"

I cut him off. "No, that's okay, Mr. Porter. Me and my brother are taking care of it. I'd just like to put the whole thing behind me."

Mr. Porter nods, and stands. "Okay. Well, better get to class. I'll write you a pass, but if you hurry, you'll make it to homeroom no problem." He scribbles off a signature on a Post-It and hands it over. "Oh, and Maeve?"

I glance up from the pass.

"If there was anything going on between those boys, you let me know, okay? It doesn't matter that they're in important sports. I'll let it slide this time because I did not see very much, but the school doesn't tolerate that, just so you know." His eyebrows are drawn together in concern.

"Sure thing, sir." I pause. "Um. Does this school still have a no-tolerance policy?"

Mr. Porter frowned. "No. We never adopted it in the first place after a neighboring school had a very precarious situation become of it. Why?"

I shake my head. "I was just wondering. Thank you, Mr. Porter."

"Any time, Murdock."

~oOo~

The time leading up to lunch passes by dreadfully quick. The classes were relatively easy, and once I explained my brother's email all the teachers were super sympathetic and nice. In fact, I had it easy.

I figured I would see MJ in Science or Math, but she was absent for a rehearsal since her drama club was going to be performing at a nearby old folk's home. So it eased a little tension off my chest, like that elephant from before had laid off the peanuts for a week.

But when I got into the lunchroom clutching my tray—no spaghetti, just a fruit parfait, since I was supposed to be taking it easy, or as I like to call it, _boring_ —it was like my presence was the Black Death to voices. Everyone at my table instantly quieted. MJ, of course, was facing away and continued talking avidly about her rehearsals, barely even realizing that everyone else had just clammed up.

Ned was the first to break the silence. He laughed nervously. "Oh, um, _hi_ , _Maeve_."

MJ paused. "What?" she asked.

Kate pointed at me.

She turned around, and, in true drama queen fashion, burst into tears on the spot. She stood and threw her arms around my shoulders, which knocked my lunch to the floor, but I didn't care and neither did she.

"I thought you were dead!" she accused, pushing me onto the bench and sitting down next to me. Kate silently handed me a napkin, and I dabbed at the tear stains left on my shirt. Not that I cared, but, it was a nice distraction from all their pointed stares. All except Peter's, I noticed dully. He stared down at his meal.

"I'm not," I offered back weakly.

"Yeah, well, you have a lot of explaining to do," Gwen said, taking sip of milk.

I nodded, accepting my fate, and relaxed enough to tell my story.

~oOo~

The Black Death struck once again when I was done.

And Ned, once again, wasn't going to stand for it.

"Well, on the plus side, you met Spider-Man," he offered, his eyes slightly lower than they would normally be. Staring at my scarf, or perhaps, staring at what he couldn't see underneath it.

I smiled. "That's what I've been telling myself, too."

Peter excused himself to go the bathroom then, and Ned followed not thirty seconds later, looking sour.

Kate gave a wry smile. "I thought that was just a girl thing."

~oOo~

When I got home, I was in for a second surprise that day.

Spencer was sitting at our card table we used as a kitchen table, his computer propped up on top. As soon as I walked in, he got up and handed me two Tylenol and a glass of water.

"Peggy emailed me. She's stopping by after her shift," he said, before asking me how my day was. I told him, not-so-honestly, a very glossy day filled with no bullying quarterbacks or crying actresses. He didn't need more stress.

"Mr. Porter says I can definitely keep up my B average," I said, fiddling the sleeve of my jacket.

Spencer smiled. "Thank God. We're going to make it out alive."

Well, if kicked-puppy Spence could be sarcastic about the whole ordeal, then we were certainly going to get through it.

And hour or so later, Peggy appeared at my doorstep, buzzing up through the intercom.

The surprise was how nervous she looked when I opened the door. She was ringing her hands like there was no tomorrow, and she didn't have any makeup on, which was a rarity for her.

"Peg," I said in way of greeting. "What's up?"

"Hi," she said meekly. "Can I come in?"

I let her in. Spencer had left not ten minutes ago to pick up smoothies (dinner), and milkshakes (dessert), so we had the house to ourselves.

"What's up?" I asked again.

Peggy sighed, and plopped down on our single couch. "Look. I came here first, because I figured you deserved to know—"

"Wait." I held up a hand. "Know _what_? I feel like I just turned on a movie and missed, like, half the plot."

Peggy only gave a wry smile. "Sorry. Okay. So, I knew there was something wrong with this new Oscorp drug. The one they injected you with. It was too perfect, and it worked too well. All the results were completely normal, and all Oscorp said it was just a mix of and 'careful calculation'—" she used air quotes for emphasis, "—of other existing medicines, only stronger or whatever. But I knew that wasn't right. It couldn't be—it didn't make sense. Call it intuition, call it me being paranoid . . . whatever. I had to do some digging."

I swallow. What was I supposed to say? "What did you find? Where did you even _dig_?"

"Darryl works night shift at Oscorp," Peggy explained.

"Would've been nice to know. I thought he was watching me twenty-four seven."

Peggy snorted. "Yeah, well, I went to visit him last night, and when he went the bathroom . . . well, I grabbed a pass, ran to the secretary's office, and downloaded everything I could onto a flashdrive."

"You did _what_?" I exclaimed. "I never knew you were such a rebel, Peg!"

Peggy has the humility to look sheepish. "I know. It was stupid. I could've got Darryl fired—"

"Not to mention sued to your last cent!" I protest.

She nods. "But you'll never believe what I found."

I'm not sure I want to know, but Peggy doesn't wait.

"The drug. It had octopus DNA. That's how you healed so quickly. It regenerated the cells in your body, like, three times the normal speed. Of course, it'll still take a while to heal, but you could potentially regrow limbs—"

"Wait." I stop her again. "Peg, that's crazy. Oscorp—"

"Oscorp has files of having done it before," Peggy insists. "They're working on a case with lizards currently, I believe, and all sorts of animals. The octopus one dates back to, like, 2005, and I even saw something about spiders and eels. Look, Maeve—we have to take this to the police."

I pause, and take this in. There's octopus . . . in me? Oddly enough, I don't feel violated, nor do I feel the need to scrub myself until it's all gone. It's just like having calamari, I suppose.

But then another thought pops into my head. One that might be a little selfish.

"So . . . I can regrow limbs? That makes me basically indestructible, right?"

"Potentially," Peggy replies nervously. "Perhaps some other things, too, if I read the file rig—"

"Like what?"

"Strength, for one," Peggy says. "Octopi are incredibly strong. And flexible, too . . ."

"Let's test it out," I say, setting my arm on the coffee table. "Arm wrestle me. Now."

Peggy frowns, but doesn't disagree. She places her hand in mine, and sets her elbow on the table. "On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!"

What happens next, it happens so fast, I don't even think about it. I think about _pushing_ , obviously, and the possibility that I might have super-strength, (you see where I'm going with this?) but not much else.

Then Peggy's hand goes right through the glass, shattering it into a million pieces, my hand pushing it all the way through, like a hammer with a nail.

"Oh my God."

That was me. Peggy is staring blankly, lifting her hand out of the glass slowly while picking a relatively big piece out with her hand, her eyes wide.

"Oh my God, Peg, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Touch your toes," she demands, her wide gaze glancing up at me.

"What?"

" _Touch_ your _toes._ "

"Um." I do. It feels a lot easier than usual.

"Okay. Now, do it the other way. Grab your heels."

I glance at Peggy, who just gives me this look like, _You just slammed my hand through a table and now I'll probably need stitches so are you really going to say no to me right now? Even after I nursed you back to health?_

So I do it. I lean back, and . . .

And it's as easy as touching my toes.

"What the _hell_?" we say at the same time, after I'm vertical again.

I glance at the table. Then at my hands that just grabbed my heels with the ease of picking something off the floor. The same hands who couldn't even have done a pull-up last week.

And probably the best idea I've ever had pops into my head.

"Peggy. Do you know anybody that's any good at sewing? Preferably with Spandex?"


	3. Chapter 3

**But first, a note.**

 **My chapters are hopefully becoming shorter. I knocked off 2k last time, so I'm aiming for another!**

 **See if you can catch my errors, because they're out there. Grammar, spelling, punctuation . . . count 'em off.**

 **Also, I started this new thing last chapter but didn't talk about it: ~oOo~. To me, it looks like a octopus, but with only two tentacles. (Hmmmm . . . where'd I get that?) So that's my little division-thingie now.**

 **Anyway . . .**

 **Review if you're new, review if you're not! It's a foolproof plan!**

~oOo~

Peggy took two hours to crack, like the world's strongest nutshell. At first, it was a lot of back and forth, a lot of:

Her: "We should go to the police."

Me: "No; I'm going to be a superhero."

Her: "Ha! You wish. No, you're not."

But, eventually, I was able to get Peggy to see reason. She told me that the Oscorp data had nothing on me as a person—she was fairly certain the hospital was able to keep all my information anonymous, which only strengthened my resolve. The hospital didn't know I had octopus DNA in me, Oscorp didn't know who I was—and none of the above knew I had powers at all. It was foolproof. I could go around dressed in a suit and as long as I had a mask, everybody else would be none the wiser. Maybe Oscorp would be scratching their heads at the coincidence, I had, after all, already decided I wanted an octopus-themed name, but they didn't have anything to go on, not even something as trivial as my gender. They wouldn't have anything to go on.

And Peggy, apparently, had worked in a fabrics store from the ages of sixteen to eighteen as an apprentice, and had admitted that it wouldn't be too hard to produce a Spandex suit made of dark purple if need be.

It was as if my fate had been written by the gods themselves, and was all falling into place one careful puzzle piece at a time. I couldn't let Peggy's stubbornness and morals stand in the way, not when I was so _close_ to fulfilling my dream. And I think Peggy started to realize this, too, or at least she started to think that maybe I'm not as crazy as I sound.

As we begin to clean up the glass around the table—after we'd patched up her hand, of course—my favorite nurse began to frown. I'd given her a break from the debate we'd been having so we could clean up the mess, mostly because Spencer was due home any minute. She'd been quiet, mulling things over in her head. I'd been quiet, too—from experience, sometimes silence is key. She could convince herself better than I ever could, and talking might just deter her from that.

"You want to help people," she states suddenly, but it's not a question.

"I do," I reply, throwing a dust pan's worth of glass into the trash.

"But not in the traditional sense."

I shrug. "Depends on what the traditional sense is. Traditional has kinda gotten all screwed up in that sense in the past few years."

"Like . . . like me. Being a nurse. Or your brother, being a lawyer."

I nod vigorously. "Spencer calls you realistic superheroes. I'm going for just 'superhero'."

"And you're just trying to help. People. The world. Whoever."

"I am."

Peggy sighs, and it's a sigh filled with days-worth stress packed into it. I guess caring for me isn't as easy as Spencer makes it look. I'll have to get him a extra-cheesy card on his birthday or something to compensate.

"I think I'm going to regret this, but . . . I'll help you, Maeve," Peggy says, glancing at me through her dark lashes. "But only because I'm pretty sure you'd do it without me."

"Seriously?" I laugh. "Oh, thank _God_. I thought you were _never_ going to come around and see reason."

She shakes her head. "I'm still not a hundred percent sure I have, to be honest with you. But whatever. Life's short, and all that."

I nod. "But if you say YOLO, the deal's off."

She laughs, tying a knot to the top of the garbage bag as she does.

After that, Spencer returns home—he stopped at the library on his way home, the nerd—and Peggy bid herself ado, leaving me with the promise of a suit matching Spider-Man's by the next week, and no explanation to Spencer as to why all that was left of our coffee table was a thin wire frame.

"What happened here?" he'd screeched.

Peggy blew me a kiss and complimented my scarf before slipping the door shut.

"Arm wrestling match got out of hand," I told him honestly. "But don't worry—I won."

Spencer sputtered and gaped like a fish, gesturing to the shell of a table with no words.

I, shamelessly, offered to pay for it, because in that moment, I don't think a hurricane could've stopped my mood. All my dreams and aspirations of becoming a superhero that had been evolving over the past four years suddenly just got bippity, boppity, booed into existence in one short conversation. If I had known it was so easy, I would've done it years ago. I couldn't have been more happy if someone told me the Beatles were getting back together, including the dead ones.

"Why are you in such a good mood?" Spencer demanded, handing over a smoothie.

I shrugged. I was going to have to get used to lying to him, I supposed, because there was no way he was going to know about this entire mess. Peggy had been hard enough to talk into it, and I've only known her for a few weeks. There was no way Spencer would ever agree to letting me go risk my life with some masked hero who swung around on webs and stopped criminals. Lying about it was going to be my only option if I wanted to continue. Maybe I'd join soccer or track or something to cover it up. Maybe tennis. Maybe _golf_. Oh, the possibilities.

Is it bad that the thought of lying to my brother only made me happier?

~oOo~

For the rest of the week, everything goes smoothly, if a bit anxiously. It's all just sitting, waiting, tapping and fidgeting and jiggling my leg up and down and staring off aimlessly during class because Home Economics and Algebra are far less interesting than anything related to Spider-Man. I was playing with different superhero names—as I'd decided I needed one—but so far, I'd come up with jack shit. I'd just been scribbling out OCTOPUS in big letters, sometimes cursive, sometimes calligraphy, but always mind-numbingly boring.

I was just wasting time, let's be honest.

How long did it take to make a full-body suit, anyway?

 _Oh, and imagine if something was wrong and I just had to wait even longer . . ._

MJ, at the time, snapped the pencil out of my hand. "You're fidgeting," she commented. "Chill."

So, yes, a dull, tedious week. It was all work, work, work, to the point where I started wondering if begging Spencer to come back to school in the first place was really the best idea. In fact, the only fun I was having was in P.E., which had previously been one of my least favorite classes. (Okay, but who actually likes P.E.? Besides the boys who think they're going to make the Hall of Fame, I guess.) My super strength made doing literally anything easy as flexing. Making a half court shot? Easy. Hitting a homerun? Easier. Running a five-minute mile? Oh, man, give me a challenge! And whether it be the super strength itself or all the exercise I'd been doing the past week, I was getting skinnier, too. I'd already lost ten pounds, and likely it would've been more if I hadn't been gaining it back in muscle.

But the newfound fun in gym didn't extend to lunch, that was for sure. Everything had become rather dull in my friend group. My lunch table seemed to have collectively decided to take it easy and let me 'recover', which meant all strenuous activities—which, what had they originally had in mind? Bungee jumping?—were cut from the agenda. It was all relaxing conversations and pleasantries, like getting a little tutoring from Gwen or running lines with MJ, or Ned discussing anything not superhero-related, which was downright obnoxious. By Friday, I would've killed to go to the mall or listen and laugh to a debate between Ned, MJ, and Gwen. I hadn't even spoken to Peter about the whole Flash thing, which, while it wasn't on the top of my to-do list, it should've been.

So, in my spare time, even with my oh-so-busy schedule, I managed to sit down and take a minute to look up anything and everything about octopuses, just to see if I had any super-special powers coming down the road that hadn't popped up yet.

Turns out, all octopuses have poison of some sort, but only a select few have enough to hurt humans. Most octopuses have beaks, too—could my nose count as one? It was big enough, that was for sure—and no bones, either. I guess that doesn't help my whole hero look, since I now embody a spineless animal instead of something fearless.

They're also big-headed. Literally. Couldn't I have gotten a cooler animal? A lion? A tiger? I'd even take a turtle. Turtles are cool.

" _Every octopus has three hearts, one meant to pump blood through its organs; the two others serve to pump blood through its gills. Octopus blood is also blue because it has a copper-based protein called hemocyanin,_ "I read aloud, rambling off from some animal protection website. There was a lot more people invested in octopuses than I thought.

"Hmmm." I was in my room at the time. It was Friday night, and I was supposedly studying for a math test. At least, that's what I led Spencer to believe.

I needed to test this out.

It took me a minute to find something sharp enough, but I eventually grabbed a safety pin that was holding a bra strap in place—not the one I was currently wearing, of course—and pricked my finger. Sure enough, there was a little spot of purple-colored blood on my finger. Did that mean there was enough hemocyanin in my blood to actually change the color of it? How did it even change? Now, while this in some realm of possibility made sense, I didn't have enough knowledge of genetics and DNA nor even enough information about what Oscorp did to me to prove the reason behind it.

I'd have to ask Peggy. Spencer might be able to give me a proper answer, but it was not like I could just ask him. We weren't even studying genetics this year. He'd be automatically suspicious.

But what I _could_ do was test the rest of these fun-facts I'd found.

First on my list: the limits of my flexibility.

This one seemed easy enough, but it ended up being harder to actually execute than I thought. Obviously I could do the splits, and I could even go a little farther than that—I could almost spin my arm completely around if I tried hard enough. It was as if my joints were looser. But did this mean my bones were more . . . boneless? Oh, God, that didn't make sense in the slightest. But could they have lost some of the density, maybe? But that would make them more brittle, more likely to break, but maybe it'd be different since it was _octopus DNA_ and there wasn't exactly a website with all the answers for all my questions. I could always go on Yahoo, but if there wasn't a website for it already, then it wasn't likely someone was out there that was willing to give up the answer.

Still, I decided to test it out, and the simple answer: no. Long answer: our apartment has a tiny balcony sidled right up to our next-door neighbor. She's got a small tomato garden growing, and a small wire rack to keep the vines upright. I'd gotten my fingers stuck in the rack before when I'd groomed them for her, back when money was so tight I was asking the people in our building for any sort of odd job they needed done.

I reached over the divider of our two buildings—if I needed to test if further, I could always stick my arm in the railing, I supposed. I hoped it didn't come to that, though, because if I got stuck, how was I supposed to explain that to Spencer? And if he couldn't get me out, how was I going to explain that to the firemen?

Slowly, I wiggled my fingers into the spaces. It was a tight fit, but I managed, and they it felt the same way coming out.

That's a hard no to a lower bone density.

Next up. Octopuses have small little suckers on the ends of their tentacles—which, I found, is technically inaccurate because octopuses don't have tentacles, they have arms, but whatever, we can't all be perfect—that can stick and grab to things since they don't have opposable thumbs. Or, for that matter, thumbs.

I placed Spencer's copy of _War & Peace_ on my desk, then placed my hand on it without grabbing the sides.

 _Please stick, please stick, please stick,_ I begged. I needed some other superpower besides the basics. Every other guy had super strength and super flexibility. If I wanted something to set myself apart from the crowd, I needed a new gimmick. Something fresh.

 _War & Peace_ lifted clean off the desk, floating in the air by my fingertips.

Suddenly, there was a buzz on the intercom, and Spencer was calling me.

"Maeve? Peggy's here to see you!"

Oh, this day was just getting better and better! It hadn't even been a week, and I was already getting my suit, had discovered new powers, and could go see Spider-Man . . . tonight, if I wanted to!

I set the book down to go and tell Peggy the good news.

But when I did, the book remained on my fingertips, not even budging. It didn't come off, didn't even seem like it wanted to, for that matter.

"Come on," I muttered, pulling at it with my other hand. It didn't move an inch.

"Maeve!"

"Send her in!" I called back. I set the book on my chair and placed my foot on top, pulling hard, but it wasn't coming off, not even moving. It looked as if my skin had just grown onto the book.

So, what, I had to learn how to control it? What if I grabbed someone's hand and we were stuck together for the rest of our lives?

"Mae, you won't _believe—_ what are you doing?"

For a second, I think Spencer's followed Peggy into the room, but when I glance up, (probably with that deer-in-headlights look, too) it's just Peg.

"I, um." I smile. "I have a new superpower."

"No, that's called super _glue_." Peggy rushes forward, tossing a big garbage bag she's been carrying onto my bed as she does. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" I cry defensively. "Look! It's a new superpower. Octopuses have those little suckers on their arms, and I wanted to see if I had them, too." I shake the book as proof. "I do."

"But . . . but that—that doesn't make any sense," Peggy replies. "Could DNA change your skin?"

"Aren't you the nurse? Shouldn't you know? Wouldn't you have to treat this if it was a disease?" I retort. "I don't know, Peg—just help me get it off!"

"All right, all right," she placates, and together, we're able to remove the book, releasing with a satisfying _pop!_ that sends Peggy stumbling back a few steps.

I rub my hands together. They're not sticking anymore—I was really going to have to test that out before I started scaling walls and stuff. At least my brother's copy is okay. Thank God it was hardcover, or a cheesy birthday card might not cut it when his birthday comes around.

Peggy's rubbing the cover, staring at it. "Not even sticky," she mutters. "It doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, yeah," I wave her off. "That's old news. My blood's also purple now, but let's see the suit."

" _Purple_? But octopi blood is blue," Peggy replies, giving me a quizzical look. "Plus, it shouldn't even effect the color of your blood."

"You know that octopus blood is blue, but not that the plural of octopus is octopuses, not octopi? Shameful, Peg. And you call yourself a nurse." I shake my head in disgust.

"Octopuses?"

"Yeah. I looked it up."

Peggy mouths the word obnoxiously. _Octopuses_. "Doesn't roll off the tongue as well, does it?"

"I guess not. Can I see my suit now?"

Peggy's face lights up. "Oh, you're going to love it. It was a little tricky, because there's no WikiHow on how to make a superhero costume for an actual superhero, but I managed." She grabs the bag, tearing it open like a Christmas present. She hands me a wadded-up ball of purple.

"An optional cape," she explains. "I wasn't sure."

A few seconds later, Peggy asks me what's so funny. I can't explain. I'm too busy trying not start wheezing from laughter. I can't even help the tears that escape.

Once I've calmed down, she hands me the full suit. It's a little lighter than the cape I'd rather burn than wear, but it's still a darkish purple. The suit has portions by the chest made of silver, and there's even stitchings of the same color, giving off accents around the knees and elbows and wrists.

I'm speechless. I promised myself I was going to love it no matter what, but . . .

"Do you suppose I should cut off the fingertips?" Peggy asks from behind me. "I'm not sure if it's what you're expecting, but—"

"I love it so much," I breathe. "Look at this—my very own superhero costume! How many people get to say that? Huh? I do! I . . ." I look back at the suit. It covers my head, too, similar to Spiderman's, with black patches by the eyes and silver around it. The black fabric is much thinner compared to the rest of the Spandex, and is probably easier to see through.

"I'm glad, Mae. The fabric around the eyes is special, too, I had to order it off of Amazon. It's some breathable, seeable thing . . . I can't remember the name, let me look it up . . ."

I stop her. "No, that's okay, I don't care. I've got to try it on!"

Peggy grins. "I'll give you a little privacy." She slips out seconds later, and I immediately toss the cape to the side. I'm not stupid. I've seen _The Incredibles_.

I've already begun to change before she's even gotten the door shut. It's tight, and the feet have some sort of formable padding in the bottom, behaving like real shoes. Damn, am I thankful for Peggy. This suit would be a shitshow without her.

Once I've changed, I call Peggy back in, and let her check me over.

"Hmm. Well, I'll definitely need to trim down the sides, and probably give the shoulders more room to breathe—do you want me to cut the fingertips off? That's an easy fix, if need be."

I flex my hands. "No, I think I'm good for now. Maybe the Spandex will . . . lessen the effects? Make it easier to do things?"

Peggy shrugs. She's gone into full-on nurse mode. "Your guess is as good as mine. Like the shoes?"

I wiggle my feet. "My toes feel a little exposed, but yes."

"I'll fix that, too." She steps back and nods. "I think we're good. It's functionable, at least."

I scoff. "'Functionable' means it just works. This is more than that. It's a godsend."

Peggy smiles. "I'm glad you like it."

"I do," I promise. "But there's only one way to make sure." I head over to my window. "Test run."

Peggy's smile falters. "Test run?"

"Yes. I'll go, explore the rooftops, maybe stop a few criminals . . ." I trail off. "Best-case scenario, I see Spider-Man and get to talk to him. If not, it'll be a little warm-up."

My nurse frowns. "Don't you think . . . well, aren't we going a little fast? Maybe you should wait a while, let me fix up the suit, do some more experiments, maybe some blood work . . ."

"Peggy." I take off the mask, which falls against my back like a hood when it's not on. I grab her hands. She didn't understand how much I needed to do this, how close I was. "Please?"

She's too easy. With a sad smile, she squeezes my hands back. "Fine. I have an idea I wanted to try anyway. But let me drive."

I'm immediately curious. I wasn't sure what my plan was going out the window, so whatever Peggy's thinking of has got to be better.

I slip my clothes on over the suit, and follow Peggy out.

Just before we leave, though, with a poor excuse to Spencer about going to get ice cream—Peggy turns back, a curious expression on her face.

"Did you pick a name yet?"

"Oh." I cringe. "I have. It's-it's pretty bad, though, and I'm definitely going to change it once I think of something better, I just haven't yet. There's not a lot of things that flow with 'octopus' per se . . ."

"Just tell me."

"Fine. I think . . . I think I'm going to be called Octogirl."

Peggy laughs at me all the way to the car.

~oOo~

 **Sorry if that was underwhelming. I felt I was going too fast, writing too much at once . . .**

 **Did you know the average fiction book has anywhere between 60,000 words and 80,000? But when I see a story with over 50k on this site I'm like . . . eh . . . too much reading. It's crazy. Review!**

 **To Lewot: you do talk a lot. But so do I. And thank you for being invested in my stories. Because of your investment, here's me explaining myself off your review:**

 **-First off, dammit, you stole my idea. I was tossing around the notion of a montage-style thing with Mae learning all about octopuses, though the 'octopi' was my fault and my fault alone. (I looked it up just to fact-check you, and while you were right, the website I used called anybody who actually knew the correct usage a 'linguist know-it-all'. So. Ha.)**

 **-The summary/title are a bit out of whack, but like most of my writing, it just needs a bit of editing first, a little TLC. It's not going to change much.**

 **-Yes. Tylenol's still a thing, and they come with coupons. (Where the hell do you live?)**

 **Nitpicks don't discourage me! Please don't think they do.**

 **Anyway. Thanks, man. The help's more than appreciated.**


	4. Chapter 4

**I think my writing style got switched around. Let me know if it did, and I will backtrack a little. If you don't know what that means or don't notice anything off, then forget I said anything!**

 **This was a tough one to write—hence my taking literally forever to update, no excuses—and I rewrote it four or five times. Still, I love suggestions and criticism, so tell me how you think I did!**

~oOo~

To be frank with you, I wasn't sure what Peggy's plan was after we got in her car. She didn't bother with an explanation, just insisted that it _had_ to be better than mine, which consisted of me scaling my apartment building and hopping from rooftop to rooftop, keeping an eye out for a red-and-blue clad superhero. Hers, she promised, was more accurate, and would help me find Spider-Man faster.

"So . . ." I tapped my foot against the dashboard impatiently. "Where are we going?"

"Calm down," Peggy replied, making a left on Austin St. "This is just an idea."

I'm not sure why she thought that saying that would make me feel any better, but it didn't. I kept my eyes on the rooftops above as we raced through Forest Hills, just in case I could cut this trip a lot shorter than it was panning out to be by spotting Spider-Man's lonely figure from the car. I'm not surprised when I don't see anyone. If I had, it would've be a lucky break, and while I could use one of those, I wasn't due for one, either.

"What's your plan, again?" I asked, turning back to Peggy. She just smiles and turns on the car radio, which effectively drowns me out. Fine. If she didn't want to talk, we wouldn't talk. I had better things to think about, I supposed. Like what the hell I was going to say to Spider-Man when I actually saw him. I was thinking something cool, perhaps me sneaking up on him, or maybe me pushing him out of the way of incoming gunfire. Best-case scenario, I stop the whole robbery single-handedly, but I'd settle for maybe giving him a little rescue. Not that I thought he would need my saving, of course, but it would definitely show him that everyone needs someone there to save their asses sometimes, and that was the overall message I wanted to go for. That having a sidekick wasn't a luxury, it was a necessity.

We drive for only a few more minutes before Peggy pulls into a parking garage, going right to the top floor, not bothering with the numerous empty parking spaces we go by. The top doesn't have a roof, just open air that's especially chilly tonight. Peggy parks in the nearly empty lot and climbs out, and I, suspiciously, follow her.

"What're we doing, Peg? How are we supposed to find Spider-Man from here? There's no way he hangs out on parking garages."

Peggy perches herself on the concrete slab serving as a barrier between us and a nice ten-story drop, and pulls a radio out from her purse. It's a sleek, nice, black one, and when she turns it on instead of replying to me, it's immediately filled with chatter, right in the middle of someone speaking.

"— _requesting backup at the corner of Woodhaven and Metropolitan_ ," a voice said.

A lady's voice replied, but I didn't pay too much attention to that. I glanced up at Peggy, who was busy fiddling with the dials, trying to get the signal more clear. I was starting to think she's more dedicated than me.

"That's a police radio," I said slowly, pointing and staring at the device like it had suddenly grown horns. "You have a police radio? Like, I mean, that's obviously not just a radio on the same channel or something, like that's a proper radio . . . which means you _stole_ a proper police radio . . ."

Peggy smirks. "I didn't steal it. But be a little more grateful, why don't you? This took a lot of effort on my part."

"I'll be proud if you tell me what the plan is," I reply. "And when did you become so shifty? I thought you were an upstanding citizen!" I pause. "For God's sake, you're a _nurse_!" I pause again. "No, actually, I change my mind. That's kinda cool."

She rolls her eyes. "I didn't steal it," she insists. "It's from my brother. He's a cop over at NYPD—"

"And he just _gave_ you his radio?"

"No, I borrowed it, but that's besides the point. He's the most forgetful person ever. No one will blame him for losing it, at least, not until I can return back in his desk. If we're lucky, he won't even know it's missing. What's the saying . . . no harm, no foul, right?" I make a face, and Peggy rolls her eyes. "I'd never try to get my brother fired, Mae—certainly not in the quest for you to be a superhero. We use this _once_ ," she emphasizes the _once_ nice and clear, "and then I'll give it back. But for now, we use it to find Spider-Man."

"How, then?"  
Peggy gives me a placating smile. "We listen. Eventually, someone's going to have a more serious crime to investigate than a purse napping or a shoplifter. When that happens, we'll have the address that leads right to Spider-Man. He usually only shows up for the more serious crimes, anyway."

I nod appreciatively, and once again thank anyone willing to listen that I've got Peggy in my corner. She's got connections I could only hope for, plus the level-headedness and intelligence I so clearly lack, because I would've never thought to steal a police radio, or even to listen to the reports. She'd be a better sidekick than I would ever be. Without her, I'd just have an idea and the longing to be up there fighting with the good guys.

Together, me and Peggy sit on the concrete wall with the radio placed precariously in between us. We listen to report after report, each one using a bunch of terms and numbers that are so confusing I don't even try to figure out because I probably wouldn't understand if I did. I just keep an ear out for familiar addresses and hope for the best. Quickly, though, it becomes one of the most boring things Peggy and I've ever done, and that's saying a lot, because when I was in the hospital, we once tried to play a checkers marathon, and another time, she helped me try to take up Latin. That only lasted about a day.

Long story short, a lot of the reports are just only minor disturbances, but since they all talk in police-code, I have no idea what the actual crime is.

Just as I'm about to request a pack of cards or maybe a round of twenty questions, Peggy frowns as we hear another report for a 9-11 call over in the suburbs, and a quick look of confusion passes over her face, noticeable enough that I know she's going to break the silence.

"So," she says, not-so-suddenly. "What do you think you're going to say to Spider-Man when you see him?"

I try to think of something clever, but come up empty, so I force myself to pause and actually consider an answer. I had no coherent plan, let's be honest. I was hoping that, as cheesy as it sounds, being myself would be enough to get me the gig. That explaining to Spidey that I was just awarded these new powers out of nowhere, and I wanted to do some good with them would show him that I had potential. I'd even use the ultimatum Peggy had assumed when I'd asked for her help—that if he didn't let me be his sidekick, I'd just go on being a vigilante anyway. Then I'd be running in blind, with no experience or wisdom to back me up. He cared a lot about everyone, I could see that—it'd be an almost too-easy way to guilt him into it. Hopefully, though, I could just explain what I wanted to do and that would be enough.

But I wasn't going to tell Peggy any of that cheesy crap.

"I'll be like 'Hey, dude, saw your Craigslist ad. Still looking for a sidekick? I've got nickname from an animal that corresponds with my gender, too. We'd be a perfect match."

Peggy laughed. "If that's what it takes. But whatever it is, it better be good, because I put a lot effort into this . . ." she joked.

I wish I could explain to her in length how much all that meant to me, but now wasn't the time to get all blubbery and teary-eyed, even if I _so_ could if I wanted to. I'd have to let her know later, in a much more discreet, nice way that didn't involve too much hugging and sobbing and saying 'thank you!' over and over and over again. Now wasn't a good time, for obvious reasons. I'd hate to run into Spider-Man and have to explain to him that my voice didn't always sound so hiccup-y when I talked.

"I know. Don't worry, though—he'd be dumb to say no."

~oOo~

After nearly half an hour of feeling damp concrete seep through my sweatpants and Spandex, it seemed as if this was going to be one of the least crime-filled nights New York City had ever seen, when a report that perks both my and Peggy's interest immediately broke through the constant static of the radio.

" _Dispatch, this is Officer Wilkins. I've got a 10-31 over at the Ridgewood Bank on Queens and 108th. Smashed window, signs of possible suspect on the roof. Requesting backup._ "

Peggy glanced up at me, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"

I nod vigorously. "'Possible suspect on roof'. Who else would be stupid enough to climb onto the roof?"

"What, you mean besides you?" Peggy laughed at her own joke. "That's gotta be him. Go, go! Queens and 108th, okay? That's right around the corner! Can you remember that?"

"I better," I reply, sliding off the barrier and tossing off the clothes I'd been using to disguise my suit onto the ground. "Hold my things, if you will. These are nice Converse, okay?"

She snorted. "They're Converse. How nice can they be?"

"Just don't wreck them, please and thank you. Also, it'd be nice if you could cover for me with Spence if I'm not back in time."

Peggy, suddenly, looks concerned. "How long are you planning on staying out?"

I give her a look. "Backing out already?" I tease. "As long as it takes. I've come this far, and if you think I'm going to let my curfew stop me now, you're wrong."

She nods. "I was right to take this seriously."

I slip the mask up and over my face, pulling it over my chin, then hold up my hands for a once-over. "Good?"

"Good."

"Thanks for everything, Peggy," I say genuinely, and stand up on the ledge.

She smiles.

I take a deep breath, and peek down the side of the garage. The alley is far below, littered with trash and dumpsters, and it'd be a very stupid, painful way to hit the ground.

"Okay. Here goes nothing."

I step back off the ledge and go about fifteen feet back, stopping and doing an about-face. I pause for a second, but I know I've wasted enough time. I take off at a sprint, hitting the concrete slab and pushing off with my right foot, flying high into the air. For a second, when I reach about halfway and my push-off it's moving me anymore, it's one pure second of just nothing, like the brief moment before a roller coaster takes a dip down that first hill. Everything just hesitates, but then I'm thrown back into reality when gravity takes over and I realize that I'm not going to make it to the other side. At least, not smoothly. It's only about a ten foot gap, but I grossly underestimated how far it was. Behind me, Peggy screams when I slam into the side of the building I was aiming for, my hands scrambling for purchase as I try to grab onto the lip of the concrete roof. I begin to slip, like that moment when Wile E. Coyote has just run off a cliff and he glances down just in time to realize _oh, shit_ , before he falls.

 _Stick, stick, stick,_ I beg, and my hand does, latching onto the edge by a mere four fingers on my left hand.

"Oh, my God, Maeve!"

I let out a huge breath and pull myself up, ever so slowly shifting my body over until I'm not in danger of tumbling down and becoming a girl Flat Stanley. My ribs ache slightly and my chest hurts from being scraped along the brick, but nothing's broken and nothing's cracked. I stand up as quickly as I can so that I can wave to Peggy. "I'm okay!" I call with a laugh. Even my tentacle-skin worked fine, despite the fabric of the suit covering it. Dare I say it even worked _better_. My hand didn't stick on any longer than I wanted it to this time. "Don't tell me that looked as stupid as I think it did!"

"You're going to die!" Peggy called back immediately, and while her tone was humorous, her face suggested that she'd much prefer it if I didn't go off somewhere she couldn't watch after me. I guess she hadn't thought this through quite so thoroughly, either.

I shook my head. "I'll be fine!" I replied, and with that, I took off. I didn't want to stick around and hear any possible discouraging, yet well-meaning sentiments from Peggy. Not that she'd given me many before, of course—she was a very judgement-free person—but there was a first time for everything and that little show I just put on probably didn't give off the best view of a thoroughly trained individual ready to go stop a bank robbery. I guess she finally realized I was about to risk my life with very minimal amount of experience, and that's only if you count me being a blue belt in karate.

Well—and I might sound like a total asshole for saying this—Peggy should've thought of that before she gave me the suit.

I continued to run along the rooftops, aiming for Queens and 108th, my second jump coming easier than my first, with only a small stumble on my landing, but the point is, I cleared the edge no problem. The third comes even easier than that, and by my fifth roof, I'm having no trouble. I may not have the weird web things Spider-Man does, but I have strength, and that's enough for me to get to the Ridgewood Bank long before Officer Wilkins' requested backup does.

I stop on top of a childern's hospital across from the bank, listening for the sound of fast-approaching sirens, but don't hear any—yet. It's only a matter of time before there's more cops than I'd like opposed to what I'm assuming is Officer Wilkins' single cruiser sitting patiently in front of the bank, and there'll be no way for me to get inside unseen after that. It's a good of a time as any to make a game plan.

I immediately forget about the idea of just leaping to the bank as Spider-Man must have—those webs are a much better investment than they seem to be, dammit—because Ridewood Bank is considerably shorter than the building I'm currently standing on, and even octopus agility won't stop me from breaking a leg on a harsh landing like that. Plus, the bank's isolated on it's own section of land, kind of like a paved island. There's three streets forming a triangle around the building, each and every one much wider than I can jump, so I'd just be a pancake on the road.

Octopus-flavored roadkill.

Well, if I can't jump, then I certainly can't waste anymore time on this building. I head to the side and scale down, using the balconies on the side like ladder rungs, and soon, my feet hit the ground and I dart across the 108th, circling around to the back of the building so I'm not caught by Wilkins.

There's a slight hedge surrounding the back of the building, forming a little garden that makes the bank seem a lot more cheerful than, like, five other banks I could name off the top of my head. I hop over the bush and head around, looking for a back entrance, or perhaps an employees-only one that I could exploit. There wasn't one, which was just my luck, instead there only being short squat windows covered with metal bars kinda like the ones in jail cells. Luckily, most of them were under bigger glass windows that were higher up.

I had to get in there somehow. Someone had already broke in, and from what I could tell, Spider-Man was in there, too. I'd go in and hop to Spidey's defense whether he needed it or not, and once the actual criminals were taken care of, I'd follow him outta there faster than the cops could say, "Freeze!"

But how was I supposed to get in? If I went around the front, I'd be seen by the cops, and there was no other stroll-right-in entrance, as far as I could see. Well, screw it. Remember what I said about destruction being natural? If I wanted in, I was going to have to break some glass.

Jeez. Fifteen minutes into the job, and I was already vandalising property and breaking into a bank.

I carefully scaled up the side of the bank, using my new power to climb it like it was a rock wall. It was tricky at first, because my feet wouldn't grip, but my unprotected toes eventually stuck, and I was able to climb easily. I'd have to remind Peggy not to fix that, actually. It was much better this way, even if I looked like a red eyed tree frog.

The windows with the bars on them weren't going to be broken by me, so I climbed up farther, reaching the higher windows, steadying myself on a small concrete ledge that was placed conveniently underneath, and it gave me the perfect angle.

Then I smashed my fist through the first pane I could reach.

The glass broke easily enough, and if there was an alarm to trip, it was probably a silent one because no siren rang out, just the sound of glass hitting the ground below and breaking into a million pieces. My knuckles hurt, of course, but I ignored the pain. I was going to have to get used to that, I supposed. I smiled, and felt the Spandex stretch as my cheeks expanded.

This was, simply put, really awesome.

I had to clear out more glass to get through, wincing every time a piece shattered on the ground in the otherwise-silent room. But I started going a little faster when I heard the unmistakeable sound of sirens wailing in the distance. Backup was finally arriving.

The main room that I landed in, one with high ceilings and reception desks, was deserted, but a loud commotion came from the back room laying behind those desks caused me to leap from the window and rush as silently as I could towards it. The sounds that came from that back room could only be described if you've heard something like it before—the sounds of a full-out brawl. Of punches landing and punches missing, though the latter was often a lot softer than the ones that actually landed. The only reason I knew those sounds was because of the many fights I'd seen break out in school, though those only seemed to last a few minutes before a teacher broke through the group of kids huddled around to see who'd win, like the bunch of sadists we were.

I slid over the teller's desk, sending a bunch of papers flying into the air, and landed lightly on my feet. I hoped it looked as cool to the cameras as it did in my head. And if it did look that cool, I hoped the footage gets leaked.

Someone in the back room that I was fast approaching was slammed against the wall roughly enough to shake the whole room like an earthquake tremor.

I paused for a moment, but trust me, the hesitation wasn't doubt. I had come this far, and if I went back now, I don't think I'd be able to look myself in the mirror.

Not only that, but it'd make a crappy story, too.

But you know what else wouldn't be a good story? Me getting my ass kicked the second I stepped into that hallway. So I took a moment to collect myself, to summon the essence of Black Widow, of remembering the millions of times I'd watched her fighting during the Battle of New York, or in Germany, the way she'd sling herself up around people's neck and beat them up with the smoothness of water. While I wasn't going to be nearly that good—possibly ever—focusing on fighting just like her couldn't be too difficult.

I took a deep breath, and barged into the corridor, immediately taking in the scene.

There were five figures, one of which was slumped against the wall closest to me, a sizable crack in the wood where he must've hit. Another was barely visible from the outside of a vault further down the hallway, the door slung open, his arm only moving into view as it moved back and forth quickly, probably looting the place. And right in front of me was the last three men, clear as day, one of them wearing a suspiciously tight Spandex suit and fighting the other two, shooting webs out of his wrists.

I smiled, and watched as he dodged a punch, his back to me. It didn't matter if he couldn't see me, though—I'd seen his fighting skills up close and in person before, so I knew he had attuned senses. He knew I was here.

"Need some help?" I asked, and my own tone of voice surprised me. It was cool, confident, and collected. I casually leaned against the wall, a few inches from the unconscious guy, one foot propped up. I figure it's the mask making me more confident—no one knows who I am, after all. I can be, say, whatever I please, and no one I care about can judge me for it.

It's an interesting idea, one that I plan to use further down the road, but for now I've got bigger fish to fry.

Spider-Man glanced back at me, as did the other two blokes, both of which didn't give me the time of day, but Spidey wasn't that stupid.

"Another one?" he whined, dodging a punch and shooting another web as he did. Unfortunately, the web shot wide, hitting the edge of the vault's heavy door in a small blob, completely useless. "Where do you guys keep coming from? Is there some evil factory producing you guys that I don't know about?"

I scoff. "Don't put me in the same group as them. I'm not the one robbing the place."

The bigger one of the two glanced over at me, but only for a second before having to dodge a swing from Spider-Man, grabbing his forearm as he did and forcing the hero stumble back, closer to me, and for a brief second I'm worried Spidey's going to spin around and start throwing punches my way. He turns away, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least for now, he has deemed me not a threat, so he kept his attention on the actual criminals.

"Who are you?" the smaller of the two demanded, beady eyes staring right at me. The guy in the vault peeked out from around, taking a break from his robbing to see what all the commotion was about. His eyes widened when he spotted me.

"Who the hell is that?" he yelled to his friends.

Did Spider-Man have to explain himself this much before he got famous?

I rolled my eyes, fully aware they couldn't see me do it. "I'm here to talk to him, actually, once he's done with you," I said, pointing a lazy finger at Spider-Man, letting myself be as cocky as I pleased. The more arrogant I was, the more experienced and calm I seemed in these types of situations. I only hoped Spidey was taking paying attention.

Spider-Man, in the meantime, while not reacting to my statement, was successful in trapping the bigger guy's arm against the wall, which didn't stop the him from sucker-punching Spidey in the nose, making him stumble back a few more steps.

I slid around the group, calling to Spider-Man. "I got you, Spider-Dude," I reassured him unnecessarily, moving further down the hallway to meet the third guy in the vault. He was too busy shoving money into a duffel—which, I noticed, was matching a similar one beside him with .45s packed into it, and may I just say, what a bunch of idiots—that he barely even noticed me slamming the door shut and spinning one of those pirate-wheel-thingies until it was too late. The poor guy banged on the wall, shouting and yelling for help—which, of course, eventually turned into profanities aimed at the not-so-lucky me.

"Let me out of here!" he hollered, but I turned back to the main fight instead, watching for a brief second at the guys fighting. It was a lot like what I thought swordfighting would look like, I supposed. A lot more block, strike, block, dodge, strike, block, dodge, than just taking hits and hoping whoever you're fighting doesn't hit you hard enough that you can't hit them back. Spider-Man was fluid and more flexible, his moves smooth, and I bet it we were out there fighting in the main room with its high ceilings, it wouldn't even be a fight at all. But, unfortunately, in the tight quarters of the hallway, there wasn't a lot his webs could do to give him an advantage. He was having trouble getting the guys into a position where he could get the upper hand.

The bigger guy suddenly ripped his hand from the wall, taking a chunk of Spider-Man's web with it. Giving a battle cry that had a lot of pent-up emotion packed into it, he reeled back and slammed his hand into Spidey's head. The blow sent my hero falling back, tripping over the unconscious guy's feet and slamming into the floor.

Okay. I'd had enough spectating. If we were playing double dutch, this would be my moment to jump in.

I ran forward with such a small amount of grace I was lucky I didn't go spilling across the floor, but with a flying leap, I tackled the bigger guy, knocking him to the ground like I was a football player. His head slammed into the tile, and he was out like a light.

I couldn't help feeling like I got extremely lucky with that one.

I scrambled to my feet quickly, prepared for another attack, but Spider-Man's already got the smaller guy strung up against the wall by his hands.

I blow out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Good job, man. Nice web work."

He turns to me. "Same to you, I guess. But, um—who are you again?"

"That," I say, pointing a finger, "is an excellent question, and I'd love to explain to you over a cup of tea or something, but not here, and not in front of these guys. I'd give us _maybe_ a minute before this place is flooding with cops."

Spider-Man cocks his head to the side, listening. "You're right. And you're not . . . like, evil, right? Because I'm kinda tired, and I really don't want to fight you right now. I'll schedule for another day, sure, we can meet up—"

"Not evil," I reply. I have to stop myself from smiling like an idiot. "I'm actually looking for employment. Maybe an internship, that type of thing."

Suddenly, from the front of the bank, a door slams open and the guy strung up on the wall starts screaming, calling for help, not realizing the irony in the situation.

"We're in here! We're in here! Somebody help me! Somebody help—"

Spider-Man's web covered the guy's mouth like the world's most convenient gag.

"You do realize you just tried to _rob_ a bank, right?" Spidey asked him, but the guy just glared.

I bounced my knee back and forth slightly, waiting for him to say something. We needed to go, before we were _both_ arrested for breaking and entering. For a brief second, I wonder if Gwen's dad is part of the requested backup. This would be a piss-poor way to have an introduction, wouldn't it? I hesitate, but Spider-Man makes up my mind for me. He gestures for me to follow him down the hallway, and I do. He leads us into a back room with a high roof and a skylight that's missing a pane.

Well, at least I know I was right. He did come in through the ceiling.

"Got something to pull yourself up?" Spider-Man asked, attaching a web to the side of the ceiling with incredible accuracy, tugging on it lightly before glancing back at me.

"Sorry, no. Left my grappling hook at home, didn't think I'd need it."

"Funny," he says, and there's no mistaking his sarcasm.

I shrug. "I thought so."

There's a shout down the hall, and I glance at Spider-Man suspiciously. I have to remind myself that he can't read my expression, but he seems to grasp the situation pretty well.

"C'mon," he gestures, and I grab onto his shoulder, one foot on top of his, my other arm around his waist. I push down another too-big smile and a giddy laugh. This is crazy! Spider-Man simply tugs on the web and we zip up, flying towards the ceiling. Below us, I watch as cops race into the back room, seconds too late. I'm not even sure they look up before Spider-Man's helping me heft out of the sky light, and soon, we're standing on the Ridgewood Bank's rooftop, completely criminal-and-police free.

I straighten up and crack my knuckles. I'm attempting to push it through my head that I just stopped a freakin' bank robbery, and that I'm now standing on a roof—keeping calm, no less!—with Spider-Man, acting like I've been doing this sort of thing my whole life.

It's kinda surreal.

Spider-Man crouches next to the skylight, his hands perched on the edge between his legs while they're spread out wide with his feet still firmly on the rooftop. It looks like he's trying to cram into a too-small space, or, maybe, if I squinted enough, he'd look just like a monkey.

I decided to tell him so. "Aren't you named after a spider? Why are you sitting like a baboon?"

Spider-Man stands up, stretching. "Ah, you think you're funny. Wanna tell me your name so I can make fun of you, too?"

I puff out my chest, trying to look at least semi-confident. "Before I tell you, though—it's a work in progress, 'kay?" I pause for dramatic effect. "I'm Octogirl. Or, more specifically, your new sidekick."

Spider-Man let out a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a scoff, but I give him credit for not doubling over in laughter at my name like Peggy did. "Wow. Okay." He scratched the side of his nose. "Being my sidekick. Huh. You mentioned that before, right? Funny thing, I don't remember asking for one."

I shrug, trying to organize my thoughts before answering. This is going to be tougher than I anticipated, I can tell. I was hoping he'd be a little less stubborn. "No, you're right, you didn't ask for one. But, as it turns out, I noticed a few things about superheroes. First, what it takes to be one." I held my arms out wide, gesturing at myself. "That part is surprisingly easy once you know how. And second—possibly most important—is that all the greats have sidekicks. Batman and Robin, Iron Man and War Machine, Captain America and that Falcon guy. They're all over. I figured . . . huh. I've got powers. I'm not good enough to be a real superhero, but I can damn well help those who are. I'm just . . ." I pause. "Offering my services. Like a intern, I suppose."

"Right." Spider-Man nods sarcastically. Or, at least, it comes off that way, because I've never seen anybody that could sarcastically nod before. "So you figured you'd dress up in a suit, come find me, and what, _abracadabra_? Bippity boppity boo, you've got the job?"

I hold up my hands. "Um, I believe I took out two of those guys back there, if I'm not mistaken. I think you're underestimating me."

Spider-Man waved a hand dismissively. "I had it under control. So if you want to be a sidekick so bad, what's your backup plan? Applying to be Black Panther's maid?"

I wrinkle my nose. "At least I'd get paid doing that. I'd be doing this for free. But, c'mon, man, at least give me a shot. I only got these powers, like, last week. I'm going stir-crazy. I want to help people, just like you, just like Iron Man, just like all the Avengers."

Spider-Man pauses. "You have powers?"

I smile. "Where do you think I got the name?"

"Octogirl?" He takes a moment to think it over in his head. "Don't tell me you have the powers of an octopus." I give an overzealous nod, he groans, and it sounds like he's genuinely jealous. "That's so cool! Why didn't I think of that?"

I shrug. "I didn't realize you get to pick."

"Well, you don't, and now I'm stuck getting asked why I copied off Black Widow's name. But if I _could_ pick, octopus would be up there right next to a elephant, trust me." Spider-Man seems to be smiling under his mask, the white patches that represent his eyes turned up slightly at the bottom, and his chin bobs. Yep. He's smiling. I smile, too, and while that can be proven, the fact that I'm blushing can't, so let's just say I'm not.

But then an awkward silence lapsed, and my smile disappeared. I wasn't sure where to take the conversation from here. I'd already asked to be his partner, and he'd seemed . . . reluctant, to say the least. He seemed content not asking me any more questions, so I was really stuck. This is where actually paying attention to the way MJ struck up conversations with people and actually maintained them would've been helpful.

"Here's the thing, Spidey," I say, and approach him till we're only two feet apart. "You need me. And I'm not saying you can't fight on your own, and I'm trying to intimidate you, but let's be honest. It's simple math. Two people have a greater chance of beating . . . well, actually, it doesn't matter—they'd have a better chance of beating anyone than if it was just one person by themselves. Like I said, I've got powers—I intend to use them. And since our skillsets are so similar, as far as I can tell, isn't it better to join forces than to work alone?" I stop. That actually wasn't half bad, considering my original plan hadn't worked past how I was going to even meet the guy. "And, I'm assuming you don't trust me—I wouldn't either. But that doesn't mean I don't deserve the chance, right?"

I wish I could watch the decision-making process in Spider-Man's face right about now. I'm assuming his eyebrows are drawn together, but I wonder if he's wondering how to tell me no, or if there's a way this could actually work out. But I let him think.

He takes about thirty seconds to make up his mind, or, actually, making up his mind about whether or not he should make up his mind at a later date, or just give me an answer now.

"I'm going to think about it," he says slowly, like he's uncomfortable saying the words.

I scoff. "I've heard that one before."

"Bet you have. You seem like the type."

"What does that mean?"

"Absolutely nothing." He grins, and I just picture it being a big, dopey smile.

"Right. So you're going to let me know?" I pause. "God, this really is like a job interview."

"Isn't it? Well. It's past my curfew," he jokes. "I'll see you around, Octogirl." Spider-Man waves goodbye, but I catch him before he's able to swing off when I realize a crucial flaw in his plan.

"Wait!" I call after him. "How are you going to let me know? If you think I'm letting you off the hook that easy, you're wrong."

Spider-Man grins. "My bad. Just . . . um . . . find me however you did before, okay?"

"I stole a police radio, man. I've gotta give it back."

Spidey takes my thievery in stride. "Got it. Let's meet back here, then, this time . . . Tuesday?"

I bounce on the balls of my feet. "Okay. Okay! Sounds . . . sounds good."

Spider-Man nods once and waves again, and then he's gone.

For a minute, all I can feel is pure adrenaline and excitement running through me. I did it! I actually did it. And while Spidey needs time to think, it was better than a blatant _no_ , which I would never admit, I had been half expecting. Now I just had to survive the weekend, Monday, Tuesday, and I'd be an official superhero.

But before all that, I had to figure out how to get off of this damned bank without getting shot.

~oOo~

 **A couple details I should clarify about AU my idea is from the MCU.**

 **-Liz and Michelle have been replaced with Gwen, Mary Jane, and Kate. Ned gets to stay, though, and so does younger Aunt May. Maeve and Peter need to know each other a little, so I used them as bridges of sorts.**

 **-Stark isn't as helicopter-parent as he seems in the trailers. He's perfectly fine checking in once and a while on Peter, but since it's a few months later, let's just say he thinks Peter can handle himself.**

 **-Peter got his powers in middle school, probably late 8th grade.**

 **-No Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. or Defenders. They do exist, they just won't be incorporated.**

 **-MJ, Gwen, and Kate don't know about Spider-Man, only Ned.**

 **-Spider-Man doesn't have that bug thing you see in the trailer.**

 **-Peter does have that little complex where he tries to do everything, and Maeve's gonna help him with that, I think.**

 **Questions? Let me know! (Or just telling me how great I am would be nice.)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Guess who's having writer's block? Hahahaha kill me! I hate this!**

 **That's why nothing happened in this chapter, just so you know. I needed to upload** _ **something**_ **, but there is a few important details, plus giving a little basis for some relationships in here. Oops? Really, I'm just flexing my dialogue skills.**

 **Also! Mary Jane and Kate are loosely (not-so-loosely) based off two close friends of mine, so sorry if MJ is slightly OOC? But, let's be honest, if I was really sorry, I'd change it, not apologize. Luckily, my friends are pretty cool, and MJ has been described as 'flighty, with a carefree attitude' in the comics, so unless you're looking for more of a Spider-Man movie type MJ, we should be fine.**

~oOo~

When I got home that Friday night, I was sore. The good kind of sore, I supposed, if there was such a thing. The kind where you're just out of the gym and your muscles hurt, yet you've still got enough energy to motivate you to take a shower. Which is what I did, after explaining to Peggy what happened, having her drive me home, and then lying to Spencer about why I looked so flushed and was wearing oddly colored gloves when it was close to sixty degrees outside. I couldn't remember exactly what I said if I tried. I pretty much just word-vomited in his lap, but he accepted it like any normal, sane person who just really didn't want to hear the truth would.

I hid the suit in the back of my closet, tucking it behind a box of old stuffed animals and clothes that I couldn't bear to get rid of. I'd have to sneak it down to the laundromat some time this weekend, since it was all sweaty and gross now. Actually, I'd have to ask Peggy if it was even _washable_. If I had to hand wash it, I was going to pass that responsibility back to her.

That night, I went to sleep, trying to ignore the feeling in my gut of worry that maybe I hadn't made the best impression, that Spider-Man would decide that it was stupid to have a sidekick, or a million other things that could go wrong. Worst-case scenario, maybe there wouldn't even be a decision at all. Maybe he already knew what he wanted. And, _man_ , was it nerve racking. I couldn't wait until Tuesday.

~oOo~

The next day, I went out shopping with MJ and Kate, and then to the movies. Gwen, of course, was off doing some studying thing, and wasn't able to go, which made Mary Jane roll her eyes and mouth _boring_ to me when we got the news. But regardless, she was perfectly fine parading me around and giving me a tour like she owned the place.

"Okay. Now, look, they actually have a Jamba Juice!" MJ exclaimed. "I could never go back to that old, crappy mall. Why go to a place with no smoothies?"

"You know, an average smoothie from there has more calories than a Big Mac," Kate commented quietly, raising her eyebrows so they appeared above her sunglasses.

MJ rolled her eyes. "Who cares? I'll eat a Big Mac, too, then." She turned back to me. "And over here, Mae, there's that fountain I was telling you about, right next to the J. Crew."

"Pretty," I said lightly.

The shopping thing was a nice distraction from my inner turmoil about the whole Spider-Man thing, but I was also having a weird time keeping my mouth shut about it all. I wanted to tell both of them desperately about my trip out last night. I usually had no problem keeping secrets, but this was special circumstance. This was the Holy Grail of secrets, actually. This was like sitting on a ticking time bomb. This was like trying to keep a wild bird in a cage. This was like—okay. Enough with the analogies, because the only thing I knew that saying as little as possible as quietly as possible was the only way I wasn't suddenly going to exclaim, "You won't BELIEVE what happened to me last night!" and just go off blabbing about how I was about to become a superhero.

Good thing I was never talkative in the first place, I supposed.

We ended up getting smoothies despite Kate's protests, and sat down in the food court, where Kate and MJ reminded me of the homework assignment I was supposed to turn in last night.

MJ scrolled through her phone as she spoke; she was definitely a multitasker, and a triple threat at that. On her phone, talking, and drinking all at the same time. "I scraped by with a B minus. There was no way Ms. Sulinski was going to give me anything higher. I hate her so much."

"At least you turned it in," I replied, stirring my straw around in my drink.

MJ smiled at me. "True." She paused, and placed her phone on the table. "You know who I bet got an A? _Gwen_. And Peter. And Ned, for that matter. Why are all our friends smarter than us?"

"Hey!" I protested, already laughing. "Don't throw Kate under the bus like that! She's got a 3.8 GPA!"

MJ laughed. "Why didn't you turn it in, then, Mae?"

I paused just barely, shifted, and then lied through my teeth. "My internet was down. Couldn't even work on it." _Dammit_. I'd have to be a lot smoother.

Kate's eyebrows drew together, confused, and opened her mouth to say something before she was interrupted by MJ throwing herself back in her seat, groaning loudly.

" _OH,_ my God!" she exclaimed, leaning into hiss at us. "Jessica _LeDearno_ is here."

Kate and I had been anticipating something exciting. We looked at each other, and just blinked.

"Jessica LeDearno?" Kate asked.

"Jessica LeDearno . . ." I repeated slowly. I had no clue who it was. She sounded like a celebrity, almost, but not in the good way. Sounded more like she'd killed MJ's puppy.

"Yes! Oh, God, I hate her so much!"

Kate smiled sympathetically. "She's _nice_. She has pretty hair." She gave me a glance. "Jessica LeDearno is in ISS, so you probably don't see her much, but we went to middle school together."

I turned to MJ. "What'd she do to you?"

"Nothing," she growled. "But she's so _annoying_."

I nodded slowly. "Right." There was a girl across the food court, with bright purple hair, surrounded by three other girls from our school. "Is that her? She does have nice hair, I suppose."

"So?" MJ exclaimed. "Hair doesn't overshadow personality! If the opposite were true, I wouldn't be friends with you, Mae!"

Kate choked on her smoothie while I laughed. "Mary Jane!"

"Ouch," I replied, running a hand through my hair. Maybe I should've washed it before I came after all.

"Oh, my God," MJ lowered herself in her seat. "They're coming over here."

The three girls walked by. "Hey, MJ! Hi, Kate!"

Then they were gone, not even stopping to talk. And let me tell you, it just absolutely, positively, bugged me to my core. I'd never been so violently enraged by a girl with purple hair before in my life! Ugh! What a nuisance!

(This is called sarcasm, ladies and gentlemen.)

As soon as they were gone, MJ blew out a breath, and sat up. "Whew. Dodged a bullet there, didn't we?"

Kate rolled her eyes, and stood up. "Let's go. We're going to miss our movie, and after, someone needs lessons in manners."

She stuck out her tongue. "You're such a _mom_ , Kate. Loosen up! Be like Mae! She's open to _anything_."

"Is that a compliment?" I asked, tossing my cup out as we headed to the theater.

MJ gave me a look. "Don't be a smartass."

"Really? Because . . . you were insulting me, like, a minute ago, and now . . ."

"Personality shines out over hair. I just complimented your personality. That's double the points."

I tilt my head. "She's got a point there, Kate."

Kate sighed. "And you're just encouraging her."  
"I'm right here!" MJ protested, before she stopped, glancing at her phone as it buzzed. "Okay. Whatever. Look, Kate, I told you he'd text me again."

She flashed Kate her phone screen, who gasped. "I didn't believe it."

"I know." MJ glanced at me. "It's Flash. _Again_."

My stomach dropped. I hadn't heard anything about this whole 'Flash and MJ' thing, but what I did know was that I very much did not like this Flash guy. I wanted to grab MJ's phone and throw it against the floor. How dare he text my best friend?

"God. He's so annoying. You go to one formal together, and the dude acts like we're married." MJ rolled her eyes, typing as she replied.

"You guys went to a formal together?" I asked. I tried to tamper down my level of appauld-ness.

MJ nodded. " _One_ time. He's gross, anyway."

"And now he wants to take you to junior prom," Kate scoffed. "I hope you say no, Mary Jane."

"Of course I'm saying no!" she replied. "But I still need to find a date. Maybe not for junior prom, but, like, in general."

I'd never been prouder of MJ, to be frank with you. I hoped the news spread to Peter, and for many reasons. The little comfort of knowing that not everyone thought he was an awesome superstar could go along way, for one, and if he happened to tell MJ about what happened last week, there was no way she'd shut up about it. Eventually, that little bitch ass of a football player would be benched best-case scenario, or at _least_ be publicly shamed.

"Jack's friend Schmidt is single," Kate offered. "He's cute."

I gagged. "I say no. He's got a creepy face." Among other reasons, of course.

"You know who you should go out with, Mae?" MJ asked rhetorically as we approached the theater. I waited for her to either say some guy that was outta my league, or someone who had a library card and cleared his web history frequently.

"Who?" I prompted unnecessarily.

"Peter," she replied, smiling. "You two would be _so_ cute together."

"Me and Peter," I said dubiously, scoffing. The Flash thing fell out of my mind faster than you could say _no thanks_. "We have, like, nothing in common."

Kate nodded, agreeing with me. "You're only saying that because Peter's aunt is named May, aren't you, Mary Jane?"

MJ's mouth opened it shock. "I am not! I, for one, think they would be adorable together. For one, they're both introverted—"

"I'm introverted, I think," I interrupt. "Peter's just shy."

"Same thing!" she exclaimed. "You guys are, like, the definition of opposites attract, but you relate enough to certain things to be perfect for each other. Seriously! I've given this some thought." She stepped back as Kate approached the cashier to buy tickets. "Plus, you both have an odd fixation on Penn and Teller."

"You're basing my dating life off of my love for two middle-aged magicians?" I asked.

MJ gave me a not-so-pleasant smile. "Of course not. But he's my best friend. You should give him a shot. He's sweet, he's so smart, he's into photography—"

I had to interrupt again. "I don't like photography."

"But think of all the bomb-ass pictures he could take of you!"

"I'm going to have to politely decline," I replied, as Kate collected our tickets.

Kate smiled, and handed me my stub. "He _is_ a sweet guy."

I rolled my eyes, trying to veer the conversation elsewhere, because soon enough, questions like 'well, then who _do_ you like?' would come up, and how was I supposed to explain a small crush I had on two superheroes named after bugs? "Then you go out with him!" I protested weakly.

"She has a boyfriend," MJ said, heading over to the concessions, me and Kate trailing along behind her. "And even though I've made my public opinion about Jack known, there seems to be no breakups happening in the future."

Kate gave a pained smile, but MJ wasn't done. "Are you into girls or something, Mae? Because, if you are, let me know. I feel like I'm hitting all the wrong notes." Kate sent her a warning look, and she hastily added, "Not that I'd care, of course. If you were. I'm, just, putting it out there."

Riiiiigghht. Just what I wanted to talk about. Much better. "Maybe I'm just not into the boys you're suggesting, MJ."

They both laughed, and MJ stepped up to order. I breathed a sigh of relief, because finally, maybe just finally, I could really relax and enjoy an outing with my friends, which I hadn't been able to do in the past three and a half weeks. Didn't I deserve one? I mean, sure, maybe I had put myself in a high-stress situation when I went and stopped a bank robbery, but _still_.

But, as it turns out, I wouldn't get a well-deserved break, at least, not for a while, because Kate turned to me, an eyebrow raised, her phone held out for me to see. "Look at this, Maeve. Have you seen this yet? It's gone viral."

" _Local Vigilante Spider-Man Spotted on Rooftop with Mysterious Figure,_ " I read aloud, and I nearly _felt_ my face pale. The article was sporting a blurry picture of the Ridgewood Bank. Spider-Man's red and blue suit could clearly be seen, but I was a dark, purple mess, and you could barely make out my silhouette. But that didn't matter, because you could clearly see someone there. "Holy shit," I muttered.

"I know, right?" Kate smiled. "You like Spider-Man, don't you? Looks like you've got a little competition, huh?"

I gave a dry laugh. A competition with myself. "Yeah. Um. Mind if I read this?"

"Sure."

I took her phone, and stepped back a couple feet, so I could read the article in absolute peace. I couldn't believe I'd been found out about so _fast_. It'd only been yesterday! And there was already an article written about it? God. I was screwed. How had someone not figured out Spider-Man's identity yet?

" _While your opinions on the vigilante known as Spider-Man may differ, there's one thing everyone knows for certain: he's stopping criminals. He's been known to work with the Avengers, and overall is a trusted figure in NYC. But new pictures taken after a recent attempted robbery at Ridgewood Bank seem to show the law-evading hero talking with a similarly Spandex-covered figure. Who is this mysterious person? Us over at the Daily Bulge seem to think that they're a woman, and possibly a new superhero. But only one thing's for certain_ — _we want to know more! While we've reached out to the officers working the case, we have been denied a comment, besides the information that finding out her identity is an ongoing investigation and the perpetrators actually robbing the bank have been arrested. Photo credit goes to Sandra Burkins._ "

I paused, scrolling for more information, but there was none. I breathed a small sigh of relief. Okay. This was a lot to process, sure, but so far, they had nothing on me. They already knew I was female, but that was kinda obvious, I suppose, since I did have boobs after all, and there was nothing you could do or say about that. What worried me most was the comment about the police already investigating my identity. But what did they have to go on? They hadn't seen me, as far as I knew—this picture was all I had.

I took a calming breath, and handed the phone back to Kate, who was watching me carefully. She was an observant son of a bitch, I knew, so I had to be careful.

"That's so cool!" I said simply. Short and sweet—that was my strategy.

Kate nodded. "I hope we see more of her."

"Me too," I replied. It was kinda cool to know that we, the Daily Bulge, and the rest of the world definitely would, no matter what happened Tuesday.

But until then, I had time to work out a game plan.

~oOo~

 **Whoo! Did you like it, did you hate it? I'm heading for the latter, but here's just a taste of Maeve's normal, civilian life. It always bothered me when superhero action movies did too much action (I'm looking at you, Suicide Squad & Power Rangers) and not enough of normal, everyday life, because how are you supposed to relate to the characters when you literally **_**can't**_ **relate to them? Those are just my thoughts, anyway. Next chapter is when we'll see the beloved Spider-Man again!**

 **Leave a review, let me know what you thought, plus any and all the errors I made!**


	6. Chapter 6

**. . .**

 **Thank you for everyone who's giving this story a chance! It's not going how I imagined, exactly, but that's fine.**

 **A couple of things: Hell if I know what to call the plural of an octopus anymore. Let's go with what I've got, and when I get a chance, I'll look into it more. Also, I do make DC references, for whatever reasons. Probably because I relate to superhero stories a lot more when I think there's superhero stories being told about superheroes. Does that make sense?**

 **~oOo~**

Tuesday rolled around much quicker than I wanted to, and that presented a few problems. One—and it was my biggest, though my priorities are kinda screwy—I hadn't gotten around to washing my suit, and it was beginning to smell. Not, like, rotting eggs smell, more like the gym clothes you hadn't washed in a few days. I sprayed some perfume on it and prayed.

Two. I was seriously behind on homework, and my grades were beginning to dip, _already_. It had only been a week! MJ, sneaky girl she was, suggested that I get tutoring from Peter, but I turned around and chose Gwen instead. Despite that, I hadn't made any time to plan a study day with her yet, and zoned out thinking every time I tried to do homework.

Forget a B average. I was hoping to pass at this point.

Three—there was a lot more speculation about who the mysterious figure was on the rooftop, both online and at our lunch table. Ned was fascinated by it, and I had to stop myself from giving away small details that the general public didn't know. ( _No_ , Ned, she wasn't alien. No, Gwen, she isn't an escaped convict! Kate, why would you think she was Spider-Man's cousin?) It made me wonder if Spider-Man did the same thing, but how would I know if he did? He probably didn't, if I was honest with myself. He didn't seem like the type to be loose-lipped. Not like me, who had to stuff my face with breadsticks to stop myself from mentioning that, _yes_ , Ned, the mystery girl did single-handedly stop the robbery in the bank.

But those, at least, were my only problems, aside from the concealer I was running out of and my lack of turtlenecks because this wasn't the freakin' '50's anymore. (Were turtlenecks even popular back then? Audrey Hepburn rocked one, but then again, she rocks _everything_.) And it's not like I was self-conscious about the little paper cut on my neck, either, but it _was_ rather obnoxious.

After school that day— _the_ day—it was all quiet in our apartment. Spencer and Peggy were still at work, and I was just a giant ball of nerves. Again. I was prepared as possible—I'd showered, washed up, eaten . . . I'd even shaved my legs, as if that would somehow help. It helped swimmers, didn't it? Of course, they had bare legs while they were swimming, and were in _water_ , but maybe their luck would transfer over to me.

I slipped the suit on long before I had to, and then took it off again because _whew_ , I needed perfume and some nice-smelling deodorant first. I even went as far as to listen to every sort of song I could find that had the word 'sidekick' in it, (see Walk the Moon and Rancid—and others, of course, but a lot of those were much more sad than I expected) in the hopes to pump myself up. Dancing around in my room was about the only thing I could do in my waiting time—besides schoolwork, of course. But I wanted to get my blood pumping, not make me comatose.

My plan was to return to the garage that me and Peggy had been on the first time . It seemed like a good idea—why change what's not broken, after all—and follow the same building-hopping routine I'd done before. I'd wait on top of the children's hospital I'd been on last time, and wait for Spider-Man to show up first, because a small part of my paranoia said that it could be a trap. Because if Spider-Man really didn't want to be NYC's own Sherlock and Holmes, he could just call the cops anonymously and tell them where I was gonna be. It'd be a low move, but I wouldn't put it past him, because I would do the same thing.

So the children's hospital is where I ended up, waiting patiently, watching the sunset. I'd walked over to the parking garage since I didn't have a ride, and stashed my clothes in the dumpster than was only partially full. From there on, I followed the same pattern of jumping from building to building, but this time, I didn't fall, not even once.

Once I got there, I positioned myself right on the edge of the roof, sitting down on the concrete cross-legged. The sun was still up, so I knew I had showed up pretty early. Maybe I should've brought my homework or something.

It was fine, though. I could wait. I took a deep breath, eyeing the bank below. There was police tape around the window I'd broken, and it currently seemed to be closed. I wondered if it was still under surveillance by the police. I hadn't seen anyone coming up, so I decided to pretend it was safe, since I couldn't prove one way or another.

I tapped my foot nervously. This was like waiting in the doctor's office for a physical.

Hours dipped by, though I couldn't tell how many—maybe I could get Spider-Man to install a watch on my suit. Though, if I was going to invest in some technological upgrades, a watch sure as hell wouldn't be my first choice. I was thinking more of a grappling hook, just so I could keep up with him. Or, maybe, _actual_ tentacle arms, but those might be difficult to handle.

The sun disappeared, and the street lights flickered on. New York City was still busy, which as a classic New Yorker, I took a lot of comfort in. The beeping of traffic over on Queen Boulevard nearly put me to sleep.

I opened my eyes, blinking the drowsiness away. I hadn't even remembered shutting them.

I needed something to get my mind off of sleeping, so I went for my biggest concern at the moment: What was I going to do if he didn't come? I shifted, peeking my head down the side of the building, resting on my stomach. I blew out a breath that turned into a deep yawn. I _had_ threatened that I would be a vigilante whether or not he wanted me to, but I really hadn't put much thought into the actual process. How would I even do it? It had to be a lot harder than it looked, otherwise there'd be a million people flying around trying to stop crime. I'd have to find a way to track criminals, get there before the police do, actually stop whoever was committing the crime, get the hell out of Dodge before I was caught, and do all that while avoiding the scrutining eye of Spencer, balancing school work, and actually having a life. All while saving everyone else's.

Oh boy. This was going to be a lot harder than I thought.

And to think, Spider-Man already did this all by himself. If he could balance schoolwork and socializing and being a superhero, then so could I. But that was all assuming that he actually went to school, I supposed. He could be a graduate. He could be in _college_.

I actually laughed out loud. No, I'd heard his voice. It had sounded just like the boys that went to my school. . . . What if he did go to my school?

Now that'd be crazy, like actually crazy, so I brushed off the thought before I could let it plant seeds and sprout. There were a lot of schools in Queens, and just because he'd happened to be in my neighborhood at the time I had first seen him didn't mean he lived anywhere near me.

That would be tough, though, I mused. If we lived in different boroughs. Imagine trying to coordinate carpooling so we could get somewhere on time. Now _that_ would be a nightmare.

I laughed to myself, and flipped over onto my back to watch the stars, or the few that I could actually see.

Immediately, I let out a yelp, almost falling over the edge as I flailed in surprise.

About five feet to my left was Spider-Man, crouched on the edge of the building, his head tilted slightly like a dog.

"Hey," he called, and gave a little wave.

I waved back, my other hand covering my beating heart. "Guess we had the same idea," I said. I pushed myself onto my elbows.

"Seems we did," Spider-Man agreed, grinning ear-to-ear. I could only tell because of the way his thin face grew like an inch.

"And you're here," I continued, narrowing my eyes. To say I was genuinely surprised was an understatement. I'd let myself come to terms with the fact that he wasn't showing up—but he was here!

"Yep, that too." He stood up, and threw out his arms like he was a trapeze artist, balancing on the small lip on the edge of the hospital's wide roof.

"So?" I prompted, sitting up fully. I was full of anticipation; the rules hadn't been show up only if we were now all buddy-buddy. He could still say no. Maybe he was only here to let me down gently, like the nice gentleman he was.

Spider-Man gave an anxious smile, or what I was officially classifying as a smile, since I really couldn't tell. The 'anxious' part came from the way he fiddled with his hands. "Well, I mean, here's the thing. Like, I think it sounds cool, you know, having a partner and all that. The thing is, I kinda report to Mr. Stark now—"

" _Tony_ Stark? The Iron Man? Wow." I criss-crossed my legs, getting my thoughts in order from the scrambled mess of being in Spider-Man's presence. Which sounded overly dramatic, sure, but mostly true. He was still practically a celebrity to me. In the back of my mind, I realized that Spidey's tone of voice was one of someone trying to let someone else down gently.

"Yeah," Spider-Man gave a small laugh, and scratched the back of his neck. "The thing is, I don't really think he'd really appreciate me having a partner, so . . ."

And there it was.

"Right." My stomach felt like it was down on the first floor. He was saying no. He was saying no! After all this time. I was definitely going to cry. I could already feel my eyes burning, and my nose stuffed up immediately. I was no pretty crier, and I didn't want the amazing Spider-Man to be anywhere near me when I did.

My disappointment must've been evident in my voice, though, because Spider-Man fell back, landing on the concrete next to me. "No, no. I was saying we need to talk to him first. Get his permission. I'm just worried he'll say no."

"Oh." I laughed, and my stomach returned to its rightful place. "Sounds like I need to ask for your hand or something."

I cringed immediately. That made it sound like we were getting married, and sure, that was the point of the joke, but still—what a stupid, stupid thing to say!

But Spider-Man laughed, and his easiness made it the slightest bit less embarrassing.

"So . . ." he extended his hand. "Partners?"

I laughed again, and grabbed his hand as tightly as I dared. "Partners."

~oOo~

Now, when I say I don't know boys, I really don't know boys. At all. Not in the slightest. Some might think I had an advantage because of Spence, but he was practically a different species. He wasn't the jockstrap type I came across at school, nor was he the geeky boys I hung out with at lunch. He was the guy who had grown up too fast to take care of his baby sister, and while he did a good job, it made him kinda hard to hold up and compare to other boys.

So I was about as clueless as lacking the game _Clue_ when it came to Spider-Man. I had no idea how to talk to normal boys, much less a high-flying celebrity vigilante who knew the richest man in the whole of the U.S., so awkward silence was definitely on tonight's agenda.

Right away we had decided that _later_ was better than right-this-freaking-second when going to Tony Stark and asking for, in the words of Spider-Man, "Not permission, exactly, just . . . clarification, you know?" (Which I didn't). But after that, we had nothing to talk about, which seemed crazy. Surely, we should have something to say. But neither of us could think of anything, so we sat in silence on the hospital roof, me watching carefully as Spider-Man pulled up a hologram out of his freakin' watch and typed out a message to Iron Man.

"What are you saying?" I asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Just asking for a chance to talk. I've done it before," he explained, pressing a few buttons and closing down the whole hologram. "He's going to think something's wrong with—" he stopped, covering up whatever he said with a cough. "With, y'know. Me."

I let the secrecy slide, saying to myself that it wasn't important anyway. "Think if he says yes I could get something a suit like yours?" I asked, sitting down in front of him. "This one is . . . homemade." I tugged at the fabric lightly. Peggy wouldn't be too disappointed, I hoped.

Spider-Man smirked. (Still wasn't sure what classified a smirk, so I was just winging it here.) "That'd be cool."

"Wouldn't it?" I replied, and then felt the silence descend like a blanket.

After a minute, a thought occurred to me. "So . . ." I fingered the bottom of my mask. "Do I tell you who I am now? Is that how it works?" I started to lift the mask up, but Spider-Man bolted forward, grabbing my wrist.

"No!" He stopped almost immediately, and let go. "I mean, um, no. That's-that's okay. We should just keep our identities a secret."

"Right." I nodded, pretending I already knew that. "Just testing you."

He snorted. "Right."

"Aren't we supposed to be doing something, then?" I asked. "You know—stopping crime?"

"Well, I don't know!" Spider-Man threw up his hands. "I'm new to this, too."

I laughed, stretching my legs out. "And here, I thought you were the expert. I'm wasting some good deodorant if we don't, just so you know."

"Me too," Spider-Man stood up, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Oh, I know! There's this lady over on Burns Street who owes me free cupcakes next time I stopped by. Saved her shop from a fire." He paused. "Get it? Burns Street? Fire?"

"Pretty piss-poor pun," I replied, standing up.

He shrugged. "I was testing it out on you, anyway."

"So no cupcakes?"

"Oh, no, there's cupcakes." He stood on the edge of a building, attaching a web to the next building over, which just happened to be some skyscraper across a four-lane highway. He pulled on it slightly, ready to swing. "C'mon, Octopus Prime, it'll give us a chance to figure out how we're going to do this whole travelling thing."

I snorted, moving to stand next to him, and he slipped an arm around my waist.

"Hold on, though I don't think it'll be too hard for you."

"Why? 'Cause I've got tentacle—" I was cut off as Spider-Man jumped from the building. It took everything in me not to scream, and I wrapped my arm so tightly around his chest and back I would've been worried I was going to break his ribs if I hadn't been so completely focused on _not falling off_. I felt my fingers getting stuck to his suit, latching on with everything they had. We swung down into the road, so close I could reach out and touch the streetlights if I really wanted to. Wind whipped past my face so hard that I was grateful for the mask that gave me a slight break from it all.

But as we began to swing slightly up, Spider-Man muttered a distinct "Oh, shit."

"What?" I demanded, and we swung farther up, slowly losing momentum, his hand still attached to the same web. Then I realized the problem—he needed both his hands if we wanted to go anywhere. "Let go!" I yelled.

He understood what I meant, his wide eyes looking around, trying to find some solution. "You'll fall!" he yelled back.

I looked back, watching as we reached the end of our momentum and began to swing back the way we came.

"LET GO!" I screamed, feeling my fingers get so stuck on Spidey's suit that they would rip the fabric before letting go.

Spider-Man tensed up, even more than he already was, if that was possible. I glanced behind us, watching as a semi that seemed far bigger than what was road-safe head right towards us, and I knew that he had felt rather than seen or heard the thing come.

The guy driving the truck blared his horn, slamming on the brakes. There was no mistaking that it was there now.

I tried once again. "LET. GO!"

He hesitated, but did, immediately using his other hand to grab onto the building to our left, which raised us up a good fifteen feet and swung us immediately towards that same building. I still raised my knees up as if that would help them not get caught on passing traffic.

I felt myself sag slightly, but I held on. Like I would even think about letting go. I didn't even know if my hands would allow it.

Spider-Man latched back onto the same building we were on before, and we started swinging forward once again.

I moved a hand up to his shoulder like I was the world's most misshapen satchel. He didn't even protest, and I let myself have one single giddy smile. This was exactly what I imagined, maybe even better, because instead of just picturing it, I was _living_ it. And holy shit, was I living.

"That was awesome!" I yelled in Spider-Man's ear as we swung down Continental.

He smiled back, and this time I knew he was smiling for sure. And as we swung down train tracks, and I spotted the bakery that had recently had a fire, it felt like . . . oh my God, this is gonna sound so stupid. It felt like what I was meant to be doing. It felt right, like just call me Goldilocks. I knew that whatever mindset that had pulled me to do this that it was the best thing I'd ever thought up, and I was the one who suggested that Spencer become a lawyer.

We landed on the roof of the bakery, and I glanced around. "This is Austin Street," I said, pointing to the street that the bakery actually faced. " _That—_ " I pointed to the road across the railroad tracks, "is Burns Street."

"Yeah, but that would totally ruin my joke," Spider-Man whined. "Plus, I always go in the back way."

He headed to the back of the store as promised, leaping right off the roof and landing on the ground. I followed, and it only jarred my ankles slightly. I must've been getting stronger. Looking up at that twenty-foot drop, I shook out my feet, and watched as Spider-Man walked up to the back door, tapping on the metal.

"I don't think anybody's home," I whispered.

"Shh," he whispered back.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and a lady stood there, decked out in a flour-covered apron.

"Spider-Man!" she cried. She was on the older side; her black hair that was beginning to gray at the roots was tucked back into a low bun, and she had glasses perched on the edge of her nose that made her seem so much more sophisticated than her black-and-white striped pants seemed to suggest.

"This is Silvia," Spider-Man declared, wrapping his arm around the lady's shoulders. "Silvia, this is my new partner, Octogirl. She's going to be working with me from now on."

Silvia's eyes widened. "I'll go get you guys some food. You must be starving."

Then she was gone, just like that, and I smiled at Spider-Man. "What'd ya do, save her life or something?"

Spider-Man grinned proudly. "Something like that."

Silvia returned with a bag of cookies and cakes, and bid us ado, telling us to come back anytime. Me and Spider-Man headed to the roof. (Spider-Man offered to pull me up on the webs, but I just climbed the side.) The caring, sweet person inside of me felt bad for just taking this from some old lady—but the other half of me, the hungry side, said that it was totally worth it once I got a whiff of the pastries.

"Silvia only gives me the leftovers," Spider-Man said. "This stuff's a couple days old." He shrugged, pulling out a scone, and lifted up his mask, revealing pale skin, and took a bite. No, correction. He ate the _whole thing_ in one bite. This guy had an appetite to rival my own. "It's still really good, though," he muttered around a mouthful, sputtering scone everywhere.

I didn't comment, though, too busy memorized by the little fraction of skin I saw. I reminded myself that staring was rude, and grabbed a cookie from Spider-Man's outstretched hand. "Thanks," I said, all the while thinking that if I was that infatuated with just a little bit of chin, how would I feel when I saw his whole face?

The pastries were good, I had to say. My cookie was fabulous, and the cupcake after that was even better. In a matter of minutes, I shamefully admit that we were cross-legged on the roof, the bag ripped open between us, completely empty.

"So . . ." I said, making the mistake of licking some cream cheese frosting off my still-gloved finger, feeling dirt and germs from everywhere I'd been tonight take up residence in my mouth. I pulled a face. "Your . . . your powers. Spider-Man. Powers of a spider, right? And you've got those web thingies, which—"

"Aren't actually part of my powers," Spider-Man interrupted. "I designed these, some formula, that—"

"I'd never understand if I tried," I stuck in. "But, what else? Super strength, sure, and I've seen you crawl up walls and stuff." I paused. "Is that it? You hiding six arms from me that I haven't seen? Wait, let me guess." I paused, screwing up my face, pretending to think. "You've got a hankering for flies."

He smirked. "Nah. Flies aren't nearly as filling as they sound. But I _do_ have this thing, that, well, I don't know what to call it, but it's like intuition. I can feel things happening before they happen."

"Like almost getting hit by a semi?"

"Exactly." Spider-Man tucked his mask back under his chin.

I copied the move. "It's your Spidey Sense, right? That's what you should call it, anyway."

Spider-Man laughed, scratching the back of his neck. "Sure. But besides that, it's like most feelings are enhanced for me. I can hear things really far away—that's how I knew Silvia was in the bakery—I've got stamina and durability, plus I heal faster than most people . . ." he trailed off. "I just realized I've never told anybody that before who didn't already know. And I don't even know your name."

"Well, do you want to? Because it's—"

Spider-Man slapped his hands over his ears, but I'm pretty sure it was the gesture that counted, since now I knew about his super-hearing. "No, thanks!"

I paused. _Maeve_ was on the tip of my tongue. I could just say it, right now, get it over with. And I'm not sure what stopped me besides Spider-Man just really _not_ wanting to know. Because shouldn't we know each other's identities? If we were going to be partners, our names seemed like the first thing we'd tell each other. But I didn't want to screw this up, not yet. Not on something that was easy to work around.

We'd tell each other later then, I decided. When he would tell me too.

"Fine." I put my hands in the air. Boys were _so_ confusing.

"Sorry." Spider-Man removed his hands. "But I think it's better if we don't know. It'll be safer that way, for our families."

I didn't even what to think what that meant, that telling Spider-Man my name meant that Spencer was in danger. Ignorance is bliss and all that. But before I even had time to ask another question, or even to explain how cool _my_ abilities were, Spider-Man's wrist lit up red.

"What—" I began, but Spidey slammed his hand down, pulling up the hologram, reading some alert the watch sent him.

"We've gotta go." He said, standing, leaving the trash on the roof. I scrambled to clean it up as he attached a web to the nearest tall building.

"What's going on?" I asked, tossing the trash to the ground next to a closed dumpster. Hopefully someone would pick it up in the morning, but knowing New Yorkers, that was going to remain there until the weather moved it.

"You can fight, right?" he asked me, reaching out, wrapping a hand around my waist.

I grabbed his shoulders. "Didn't you see me at the bank?" I asked right back.

He smiled. "I'm still not totally convinced you did anything." He took a deep breath, and seemed to decide something that I couldn't tell. "Ready to go stop a break-in, then?"

"Of course." The words came out faster than I could stop them; not that I tried to, but it was an automatic reaction. This was what I wanted, I knew that. I had always known that. I looked at Spider-Man and saw the look he was trying to betray—I almost laughed, but this, suddenly, had become a serious situation. I could already read him better than I could most people. I knew what he was saying. Whatever we were stepping into, this was my last chance to back out. I might've had my own suit, might've been there at the bank, might've met him on top of the hospital, but this was Spidey now leading me to somewhere dangerous. He was worried for me, and I didn't want him to be. If I was going to be his sidekick, he needed to let me worry about him, not the other way around.

So instead of saying something sappy that I might regret, I nodded once, letting my hands attach onto his shoulder.

"Let's go," Spider-Man mumbled under his breath, smiling, his white eyes narrowing as he focused.

Then he stepped off the building, swinging us towards the ground.

~oOo~

 **Dear Guest: Nah, Maeve's not related to Matt Murdock. That'd be cool, though, huh? Daredevil and Octogirl? I haven't finished Iron Fist/Luke Cage though, and that's basically the only reason they're not in here. The last name Murdock just fit well, and I'm quite too lazy to change it.**

 **Bo-ring, I know. Maybe they'll get a mention, or something? (Hint, hint.)**

 **But thank you!**

 **Review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, quick thing: the museum in this story is an actual museum, but I've never been. If you have and it's slightly OOC, my apologies. (Can a building be OOC? We're about to find out!) But basically, everything in here is location-accurate. Mostly. Like a lot of the street names, and if I don't name a certain building, I usually have one in mind. If you want to search them up on Google Maps or something, feel free. Ridgewood Bank is a personal favorite, the cupcake place on Burns Street, and the children's hospital across from it.**

 **Anyway, back to Mae, the person you're all here for . . .**

~oOo~

"So, this break-in," I said slowly, crouching down on a building that was labeled _Dining Hall_. "Who is it, again? Also, who would want to break into the Godwin-Ternbach Museum, of all places?"

Spider-Man peered over where the roof came to a point and dipped back down. "I don't know, and I _really_ don't know. But I get alerts from the system Mr. Stark set up for me, and I just got one saying someone triggered the silent alarm. It got sent to the police, too, but there isn't a station around here. I'm thinking it'll take . . . maybe twenty minutes. We've got time." Then, under his breath, "I hope."

"Right." I shifted on the shingles, felt one slip that I just managed to grab and shove back into place before it could fall.

"Maybe there's some old Renaissance artwork that's worth something?" Spider-Man gave me a shrug before turning back to the building, the whites of his eyes narrowing. I heard a slight whirring, and an idea occurred to me.

"Do you have binoculars installed on your mask?" I asked.

Spider-Man shook his head, smiling. "No, but wouldn't that be so freaking awesome? No." He shifted down, reaching up to touch his eyes. "Basically, I got bit by a radioactive spider."

I paused, checking his face for signs that he was spewing BS. "No way. No way!" I laughed. "Do you think I'm dumb? You're lying for _sure_."

Spider-Man gave a small laugh. "I swear." He drew an _X_ over his heart, grinning. "My eyesight is kinda wonky, like—"

"Wonky bad or wonky good?"

"Wonky I-can't-focus-well," Spider-Man told me. "Iron Man designed something that helped; I'm still trying to figure out how it works. I had a pair of my own goggles, before, on my old suit, but _man_ , is this new tech different."

I thought of my suction-cup fingers, and let myself imagine if _the_ Tony Stark had his hands on that, and what he'd be able to do. "Fuck, that's cool," I swore. "I'm gonna need to get one of those suits from Tony, I really am."

Spider-Man nodded excitedly, flashing me a smile, but didn't answer. I pulled my attention back to the building as a flashlight beam swung across the tall glass windows; whoever this people were, whatever they were doing, they weren't very slick. They'd somehow managed to set off a silent alarm _and_ didn't even think to turn off their flashlights when they walked in front of windows the size of my apartment? I knew at least three people at my high school who could pull of a better burglary than this, and two of them sat at my lunch table. Not to mention, it was a museum on a _college_ campus. I couldn't image what was in there that would actually be worth stealing. Once, in seventh grade, my class and I had come here on a field trip, and while it had been cool, it hadn't been worth whatever trouble the guys breaking in here were going to be in.

Spider-Man turned back to me, ducking low below the roof's peak. "Okay, so here's what I'm thinking. I'm going to go ahead in front, and I want you to sneak around behind—I think there's a back entrance, anyway. Do you think you could manage busting through?" I nodded immediately. The question wasn't so much an if, but a how. Like hell some measly door was keeping me from helping. "—and then you'll come around behind them, in case they bolt or something. I'll confront them. We've only got a few minutes before the cops show up, so . . ." He smiled. "Ready to go catch us some Monet robbers?"

I nodded, then paused. "Was that a pun?"

Spider-Man shrugged. "It's the best I could come up with on the Van- _Gogh_."

I groaned and pulled my legs up, ready to slide down the other side of the roof. "I'm reconsidering our partnership already."

"What, you didn't read the fine print?" Spider-Man said from behind me as I began shifting down the roof, one sticky foot at a time.

"I don't even think I've seen the contract," I replied. I watched as another flashlight beam danced wildly over the windows, but I didn't think much of it. "I'll have my people call your people, okay? Maybe they can work something out. I'm thinking, like, a bonus for every pun."

Spider-Man's laughter followed me as I dropped off the Dining Hall's roof and right into a crouch. I eased up and glanced around, taking in the area. Between us and the museum was a small plaza that, if I remembered from the field trip, was called Klapper Circle. And I'm pretty sure I only remembered the name because when the tour guide said that, everyone immediately burst into applause and wouldn't stop, like it was the funniest shit ever. They even sold those things shaped like hands that smacked together and made a bunch of noise. They had the words QUEENS COLLEGE printed on the side, and I would've loved one, but I'd already spent that week's pocket money on extra-cheesy Goldfish.

All in all, the plaza wasn't anything special, just a bunch of winding roads that all connected together with a quaint little fountain in the middle. It looked just like your picturesque college campus, all textbooks and sororities and frats and lounging on concrete steps while waiting for their next class, and now that I was older, it was a lot cooler, and all practically a bus ride from my apartment. I think that's why, in this moment, I froze, and was completely breathless. I thought it was one of the best places in the world. Of course, it was midnight and dark as shit, plus there was the looming threat of a burglars, but right now I could just imagine I was one of those people that walked around the plaza or sat on the edge of fountain with, like, an iPad or a book or something, maybe sipping coffee, smiling and chatting with friends—

"You okay, Ceph?"

My head snapped up to Spider-Man who was peering over the lip of the roof, peering down at me. I smiled. I could dream about college, but that was still years away, and right now, I had a job to do. I job I _wanted_ to do.

"What did you call me?"

"Ceph. Like, short for cephalopod? Octogirl is kinda mouthy."

"Well, as long as you're okay with me calling you Art, then I guess that's fair."

Spider-Man cocked his head, thought for a moment, then laughed.

"No? Well, I guess we'll just have to wait until we know each other's names." I smiled, then without waiting for some smart-ass response or a quick denial, I set off into the plaza, keeping close to the outer edge of the trails, closer to the benches, and hopefully, closer to the shadows. I moved slowly to the back of the building, and when I glanced to where I'd last seen Spider-Man, he was gone, not even a trail of web left in place.

If I remembered correctly from the tour, the whole building didn't consist of the Godwin-Ternbach museum, rather it only took up about three-quarters of the building, the rest given to an English department we weren't allowed to see. I was just praying I wouldn't pick a door that led me right there, but it turns out I didn't even have to worry. The single back door was propped open with a clear bottle. I slipped inside, letting the door close behind me. The bottle was some spirit called EverClear, and while that rang a few bells, it was the warnings on the label that had me concerned. It said things like, _CAUTION! HIGHLY FLAMMABLE! HANDLE WITH CARE!_ or _WARNING: OVER CONSUMPTION MAY ENDANGER YOUR HEALTH!_

Why were burglars drinking on the job?

I shook the bottle, but only a little bit sloshed around in the bottom. So maybe these would-be robbers weren't just plain stupid as I thought they were. Probably just . . . foggy minded. Either way, Spider-Man didn't know that, so I headed down a hallway to the main exhibit room where we'd last seen their flashlights, the bottle's neck clenched in my hand.

It took a minute and a few moments of me doubling back around the intricate hallways and past a few exhibits, but eventually I did find the main room. It had high ceilings and small dividing walls that were about seven to eight feet high. They were all displaying different paintings, and more lined the walls. I glanced up, and there was an overlook off to my left, giving anybody on the second floor a bird's eye view of the room. Even though it wasn't super dark, thanks to the flashlight's glow, it was still pretty creepy at night.

"What's up, guys?" a voice called from the front, and I would recognize that slightly high-pitched voice anywhere. I moved silently around one of the dividing walls to see Spider-Man lounging conspicuously in the archway that led to the front room.

I watched as three guys—no, four, counting the one sprawled across the floor, passed-out-drunk—snapped Spider-Man's way. They'd all been fairly quiet up until this point, and I could see why. Four more bottles of EverClear were strewn around them, nearly all of them spilled across the museum's beautiful wood floors before the boys had been able to drink them even halfway. I was surprised they were still standing.

And speaking of the guys, they were certainly no highly-skilled burglars. They all looked college-age, maybe late teens early twenties, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, all of them. It made me want to laugh. Of course my first job with Spider-Man would turn out to be stopping a bunch of drunks from B&E-ing a place they probably already had access to. Of course. I kept my laughter in, though, and raised my hand up and gave a wave with the EverClear bottle, catching Spider-Man's eye, but no one else's. I made a big show of taking a big sip of it. I couldn't tell if it made him smile or not, but in my mind, it did.

"Who the fuck are you?" one of the guys slurred. He was sitting down between his two friends, holding a bong and a lighter, and was nervously flicking the BIC top open, closed, open, closed. The place didn't smell like weed— _yet_ —so I assumed he hadn't taken anything, but this guy was in a helluva lot of trouble once the police got here. As he squirmed around on the floor to face Spidey, I noticed his belt loop had a lanyard with a keycard on it. That was probably how they got in.

"Who am I?" Spider-Man asked, shifting off the wall he was leaning against, taking a few steps forward, arms crossed, completely nonthreatening. "C'mon, guys! Maybe it was just my over-inflated ego, but I thought I was more popular than that!" He paused, but all he got was blank stares. "Spider-Man? No? Well, that's okay. What're you guys doing, anyways?" I watched carefully as Spider-Man's feet touched the edge of a huge puddle of spilled EverClear as he inched forward. I wondered if he knew what it was, and just how effed-up these guys probably were. It made me wonder if it'd be better if we just left right now, but I figured we should at least try to stay until the police showed up, maybe get me in the papers or something—and, of course, make sure the drunks didn't damage any of the artwork on the walls while they're left with no supervision.

Suddenly, the guy in the middle staggered to his feet, dropping the bong. It shattered against the ground and made Spider-Man flinch. I wondered if he had heightened hearing along with everything else, or he just wasn't expecting it.

"Stay there," the guy in the middle slurred out, and his friends glanced between themselves. Spider-Man put his hands up in surrender, as if the guy's accusing flashlight pointed at Spidey was a gun instead.

"It's okay, dude, I'm just here to help you guys get back outside." He gave—what I assumed was—an easygoing smile. "Do you guys wanna follow me out the front? This place is kinda stuffy, anyway." He pulled on the front his suit like he was sweaty or something, one hand still up in a placating way.

 _I should take notes,_ I thought with a smirk.

The guy to my left glanced at all his other friends. "I kinda wanna go outside," he said slowly. His eyes looked like embodiment of dazed and confused. He spoke like he wasn't sure what he wanted, but was willing to go wherever someone pointed him.

Middle guy, also known as lighter-flicker, glanced at the guy on his right, who shrugged. The constant ticking of the lighter sped up, and I watched as the bright little flame was there, gone, there, gone. Thanks to the flashlights, it made weird shadows bounce across the walls, not to mention the puddles of EverClear. The puddles that everybody besides me were at least touching in some way, especially the unconscious guy a few feet away from everyone else.

Then it clicked. I froze, watching the little flame, and the final puzzle piece fell into place. Immediately, I pushed myself of the wall I was on, the bottle of EverClear held loosely in my hand. I raised it up high, waving it around wildly. Spider-Man glanced over, and I wish he could see my face just then, because he would've known right away that something was wrong. I pointed to the bottle, then to the lighter. I wondered if he was able to read that all the way over here, maybe forty feet apart, so I pointed to a bottle closer to him. He had to see the label. He had to get everybody out of here, quick.

Spider-Man glanced where I was pointing, examining the bottle, but with the lighting—or lack thereof—I don't think he could read it. He gave his head a miniscule shake, and I dropped my arm, my eyes darting around.

What could I do from over here? If I ran and tackled the middle guy, would we land out of the way of the EverClear? Could I just go up and snatch the lighter out of his hand? I didn't know what to do, and not knowing made me frantic, but I forced myself to stay in place. I didn't want to do anything drastic that could end up with the whole Godwin-Ternbach Museum up in flames.

Slowly, I placed the bottle of EverClear on the ground, and began inching forward. Spider-Man's eyes widened slightly when he noticed, but he didn't say anything, just replied to whatever the other guys were saying. When he glanced back, I pointed desperately to the bottle next to him again, then back to the lighter. The constant tick-tick, tick-tick, was beginning to match my heartbeat.

"Um." Spider-Man's eyes dragged away from me and back to the guys, clearing his throat loudly, forcing everyone's attention focus back on him. I gave a small smile. He _trusted_ me. Maybe I was seeing things that weren't there, because, after all, what else could he do? But I liked to think that he was putting his faith in the fact that I had plan because he trusted me, but only because it made my heart a little lighter and gave me a confidence boost, too.

"What?" the middle guy snapped. I inched closer, my foot making a tiny splash in a puddle of EverClear, and as I pulled it out, made a slurping sound. Damn Spandex. I stopped, freezing, glancing between the three guys in turn, then back at Spider-Man. He looked slightly miffed, and his right hand was clenched into a fist. He thought I was being an idiot, but I swore to myself, and if given the chance, to him, that this would work. That I was taking a necessary precaution.

I took a few steps closer, trying to keep my eyes on my feet, the floor, the lighter, the boys, and Spider-Man, all at once. I pushed a few shards of bong out of my way as I went, which was never a sentence I thought I'd think. I paused when I was a mere two feet away, and was about to reach out when a siren began to sound. I froze and pulled back. It was far away, but the museum was smack in the middle of campus and next to a not very busy road, and the siren seemed to be too close to not be coming here. The lighter-flicker seemed to realize that too, even in his drunken state, and glanced towards the windows. I cringed, knowing what was coming next, and I wasn't given any time to react.

Just as Spider-Man shouted, "HEY!" a desperate attempt to get the focus back on him, middle guy must've caught me in his peripheral, because he leaped back, stumbling away from the girl in the dark suit who'd seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

"Jesus!" he cried, and the guy on his right fell onto his butt in surprise, his sleeve hitting a puddle of EverClear and sending another bottle skittering across the floor.

Before I could manage a feeble wave or even give greetings, the worst possible thing imaginable happened. In the split second it took for the guy on the right to fall back, lighter-flicker fumbled with his lighter, hissing as the flame hit his thumb. We all watched as the thing spun end over end, unable to do anything, and I was only standing a mere inches away. I reached out, but it did no good.

The lighter hit the EverClear, and that was all it took. It bounced once before settling on the ground, and it felt like I'd pulled a Michael Skupin and had fallen face-first into a fire. And, in a sense, I had. The fire roared immediately. Everything went into slow motion like a cheesy movie, but I had enough of my bearings to shove lighter-flicker out of the way, my push sent him sprawling back onto his ass. Spider-Man was already rushing over as I felt the fire eat at my foot. I almost bit through my lip trying not to scream, and jumped back, immediately going for the guy on the right who had yet to get up from where he'd fallen, watching the fire make its way ever so slowly across the floor, eating up the wood. I grabbed him under the armpit and yanked him up, pulling him out of the way, but I was too slow. The fire was on his pants leg, and I threw him back on the ground away from the fire and smacked the shit out of his crappy jeans. It took a hot second—literally, and if I wasn't so worried I might've laughed at my own joke—but once it was out I yanked him back up and pushed him, stumbling, towards the back door.

I glanced up, taking in the scene. I refused to pay any attention to the pain in my foot, or the spot where the Spandex was gone, leaving just a patch of burned skin, which was putting it mildly. Spider-Man had lighter-flicker's arm strewn over one shoulder, and had the other guy by a web to the back of his coat, but the unconscious guy was still alone. The fire wasn't at him yet, and I was thankful for his distance from his friends, but it was coming fast. I ran and slid like a baseball player into home base, grabbing his calves and dragging him towards the exit I'd pushed the other guy to. He was heavy, and along with the heat from the fire, I was hit with the undeniable smell of piss. Gross. But it's not like I had time to complain. Suddenly, it seemed as if the fire didn't care who or what was covered in EverClear. I coughed a couple of times and watched a section of dividing wall come crumbling down, taking a probably priceless painting with it. Damn.

"Ceph!" My head shot up, and Spider-Man was waving his had wildly, in between small coughs. "Cops are here!" I had noticed the red and blue sirens outside the windows, but I hadn't really processed that that meant. I nodded.

"Back door!" I called back. I watched him disappear with his two guys out the front, and in one not-so-smooth motion, I managed to flip the unconscious dude onto my back, hefting him up into a fireman's carry. I headed towards the back, feeling better when my face didn't feel like I should've paid attention when MJ was showing me how to fill in eyebrows.

I weaved through the hallways faster than I had before, barely remembering how I got there the first time. Luckily, maybe my first break of the night, backtracking wasn't too hard. I turned the corner to find the back door, tightly closed, with Righty banging on it desperately, needing to lean against it to support himself. The door had locked automatically after I'd closed it.

"Help!" he called.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath. Just talking made me wanna lean over and really hack, but I couldn't. I needed a plan. Could I head back the way I came? I spun around, prepared to push my way through the main room and out the front door, but it was almost like the smoke had followed us here. I ducked low out of instinct, but I had to straighten up to walk. "Shit!" I said again, louder. I started down the hallway past the door, grabbing Righty's arm as I did.

"Hey!" he protested, but I didn't let up.

"I'm sorry," I told him, but I only half meant it. His eyebrows just scrunched up as I led him down another odd hallway, having to double back when it eventually filled with smoke. Soon, we were left with only one way to go—up. We darted up the stairs, or, more accurately, at speed drag-and-stumble. My gut twisted with a little guilt for having to pull this guy along, but he was still slammed. If I didn't pull him, he'd be doubled over back at the door until the firemen found him, and who knew how long that'd be?

We reached the top of the stairs, and area I hadn't been on my tour, and I swore under my breath.

 _Not like that knowledge helped me before,_ I thought, but I ignored myself and continued on, shifting the drunk guy on my back. It was even worse upstairs, with more exhibits and creepy statues. I was looking for an exit to the roof, a window with a convenient ledge below it, _anything_. But it seemed as if we were stuck going in miserable circles, and as we headed past the overlook mere minutes later, me and Righty coughing like our lives depended on it, I saw that the room was in shambles. There was no saving anything.

And it was all my fault. If I hadn't been so stupid, reckless . . . none of this would've happened. My fault the lighter fell, my fault the door was closed. I was a hot mess. I took a breath, though, and forged on. I could at least get these two asshats out of here safely.

As I pushed us down yet another unfamiliar hallway, Righty drunkenly slurred out, "Where're we going?" but I ignored him as we turned left down another hallway that held nothing but paintings on the walls. I paused for a moment, breathing heavy, and lifted the mask off the bottom half of my face. I wanted to risk taking the whole thing off and discarding it, because like hell Righty would remember this all tomorrow, but I didn't. That seemed like Superhero 101: don't reveal your identities to anybody, even drunk guys who are unconscious or are most likely so drunk they don't even remember their own names.

Righty repeated his question again, this time slumped against the wall, breathing heavy.

"I don't know," I replied, let out a pent-up dry cough.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Nobody," I replied. I really wasn't in the mood for jabs at my name. Right now, it felt shameful. Octogirl: the girl who'd set the Godwin-Ternbach Museum on fire.

Angrily, and slightly desperate, I grabbed his upper arm again, yanking Righty down another hallway, hopefully one less smoke-filled.

It took over two more minutes of stumbling around in the dark, which was long enough for me to have to sling my arm around Righty's waist to keep him standing. Two more smoke-filled minutes until we found the roof's entrance.

"You smell good," Righty told me, his head lolling. I swore to myself I'd never go near another bottle of EverClear.

"You like the smell of piss?" I snapped, then shouldered my way through the door, using Pissy's butt as a battering ram. I heard something snap in the door, but I didn't care. It did make me wonder if I could've done the same thing to the other exit, but had been too frantic to try. I grit my teeth as we stumbled through.

Being on the roof felt like a breath of fresh air—quite literally. I made it to the edge of the building, letting go of Righty in the process. I didn't pay enough attention where he stumbled to. There had been no fire on the second floor as far as I'd seen, at least not yet, so we had to be safe on this roof for at least a little while. I glanced over the side, and saw a team of firetrucks and squad cars, and more pulling up as I watched. I saw lighter-flicker and the guy who'd been to his left, but no Spider-Man. They both had shock blankets on and looked slightly dazed.

I hadn't expected Spider-Man to stick around with the cops, but I hadn't expected him to ditch me, either. Maybe he was looking around the back. I dropped Pissy on the roof, too far away for him to roll over and drop off. Not that the cards were really in my favor, because I was confident in his abilities to mess things up. I'm sure he'd find a way if he really wanted to.

I bolted across the roof, tripping as I did, and peeked over where the back door was. Thank God for tiny miracles—he was there, glancing around, one hand desperately yanking on the back door's handle, and pulling away with a hiss when it burned. "Spider-Man!" I hissed. "Art!" Almost immediately, he glanced up, and I saw quick relief in the way his posture relaxed. Or maybe I'd imagined it. "Hurry! Things are getting toasty up here!"

A web attached itself to the lip of the roof, and in thirty seconds—I counted—Spider-Man was pulling himself up over the edge.

"You did not use a fire pun before I got the chance to," he said accusingly, doing a headcount around me, making sure both guys were here and accounted for.

"I'm sure you'll get the chance to one-up me," I said. "It was pretty piss-poor, anyway."

He nodded, smiling, and glanced back at me. "Are you guys okay?"

"Well, _I_ am, yeah," I looked towards Pissy and Righty, in the back of my mind wondering if Spider-Man would find those nicknames funny. "But I don't think anybody's got anything worse than a little case of smoke inhalation."

Spider-Man grinned. "Awesome," he said. "What happened back there, anyway? What were you trying to tell me?"

"Oh." I brushed it off. "The spirit they were drinking—"

"EverClear," he said.

"Right. It's, like, super flammable. I was worried . . ." _I was worried that lighter-flicker would drop his lighter, and in my paranoia, made him drop his lighter._ O-kay. "I was worried he was going to set something on fire." There. That didn't sound too terrible.

Spider-Man groaned. "I hope I'm never that stupid when I go to college."

I laughed and nodded, but mentally, I started screaming. Maybe it was an intentional slip, maybe not, but now I knew—Spider-Man was still in high school. High school! I digged my nails into my palm to keep from freaking out too much. That meant he wasn't too much older than my fifteen. That meant—well, what did that mean? It furthered my deep dark hope that we went to school together, which was kinda absurd to hope for, because ninety-nine percent of the boy population at Midtown High were douches. What if he turned out to be the Flash? If he pulled off his mask and boom, the little asshole was all big smiles and puns? I shuddered. That would be a nightmare.

I glanced over, trying to see if I could tell, but all I got was a slightly investigative stare. "Me too," I said immediately. So it was an intentional slip, then. I didn't want him to think we weren't on the same page or something, and it wasn't like I wouldn't give him my bank account password if he asked subtly enough, so I offered up the information gladly.

Spider-Man smiled. Or, I guess, what I was now officially associating with a smile. "We should get these people down now, right?"

"Right," I agreed, glancing over at the two. Pissy had begun to stir, but he only seemed able to lift his head off the ground. And Righty had managed to puke all down the front of his shirt in the two minutes I turned my back.

Next to me, Spidey sighed.

"If this is what it's like having kids," I said, "I don't want any. It's not like I'd ever be as good of a mom as Angelina Jolie, anyway."

Spider-Man grinned. "Is anybody as good of a mom as Angelina Jolie?"

"Probably not."

We shared another smile, and knowing that I was able to make the Spider-Man laugh, (would I ever get over my idolization? Probably when I learned his name, I supposed) made the stinging in my foot from the burns go down. I wanted the chance to examine it, but I would probably have to wait up until the next time I saw Peggy to get that done, as well as fixing my suit.

Well. Now wasn't the time to complain. We set to work, me helping Pissy over to the edge of the roof while Spider-Man hooked up Righty with webs, lowering him safely down. It didn't take long for the cops to notice a full-grown man _not_ decked out in a suit hanging from a building, and immediately began calling out to Spidey.

"I'm up here, too," I grumbled under my breath, but trust me when I say my pettiness held no real heat. (Ha! Another pun!) I was here to be a sidekick, not a model for newspapers like Tony Stark seemed to be. Not that he didn't deserve to, of course, but I—told myself I—didn't need that.

"I wanna go home," Righty mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Shoulda thought of that before you got wasted," I said.

Then I passed him over to Spider-Man and helped harness him up in webs.

"New York has a good samaritan law, right?" I asked Spidey as he lowered Righty to the ground, and I pulled my mask over the bottom half of my face. "'Cause if so, I don't think we broke any laws tonight."

"Avoiding police, which we'll do in a minute, is definitely breaking some kinda law." Spider-Man let go of the web as soon as Righty's feet touched the ground. Firemen had just begun working on the museum, and I could feel the mist from the hoses on my face. It felt a lot better than fire, and I mentally decided I'd rather be freezing cold over burning up any day. Maybe New York's weather wasn't so bad, after all.

"I'm more okay with that than I thought I'd be," I said.

Spider-Man sniffed the air. "What's that smell?"

"Wild guess," I deadpanned. I took a whiff of my arm, and gagged.

"Pee? If not, fish for sure."

I laughed. "Have fun taking me home."

"Ew, that's you? Gross, Ceph."

"Well, I didn't pee on _myself_ ," I protested, and mentally noted how well the nickname stuck. It was growing on me, too.

"Does that make it _better_?"

I thought for a moment. "It kinda makes it worse, doesn't it?"

Spider-Man nodded, eyes wide with humor.

We didn't stick around too much longer after that. Guilt still racked my gut, but I didn't talk about it, and neither did Spider-Man. Maybe my excuse had worked, and he genuinely didn't think I'd done anything wrong.

I sighed. That only made it worse.

"Where am I taking you?" Spidey yelled in my ear. We were working our way down 147th street, back towards Forest Hills, and I was tempted to give my address. It seemed like oversharing, but I knew he hadn't been to my apartment before, since no guy ever besides a few of Spencer's friends had, and they all were college level or older, so I knew I wouldn't be giving my identity away prematurely. Maybe before I would've worried, but now I knew, and I smiled. Knowledge is power, and all that.

Just as I was about to rattle off my apartment's address, I caught my tongue. "Parking garage on Queens Boulevard, right by 112th Street," I said. It'd hit me that I still needed to run back and grab my clothes.

"Are you homeless?" Spider-Man asked immediately, half-joking and half-not.

"If I was homeless, I'd pick a better parking garage," I replied. "This one's crap."

"So, why?"

"Need to pick up my civilian clothes," I said sarcastically. "It'll only take a minute."

Spider-Man grinned. "Gotcha."

It took us only a few minutes to get to the parking garage. We landed lightly on the building, and I darted to a particularly dark corner and fished around a minute before coming across my clothes. I balled them up, but when I headed back, Spider-Man had a phone pressed against his ear, and the whites of his eyes were narrowed.

I paused. Not really my place to interrupt, but a small part of me told me I wasn't trying to be polite; I could learn a lot more by listening instead of asking what was up. So I did, not that I was proud of it. I pretended I was busy searching my pockets for something a few steps away.

"No, I can't, not right now, I mean . . ." he trailed off, sighing. "Yes, I know, big day, busy day. Two tests. I know, N—I mean, I know." He paused. "Yes, I'm with her." I perked up. He was with me, yes, yes he was. Suddenly, he turned, and I made sure it looked like I was still invested in my jeans. "My friend says hi, Ceph." He paused. "And he thinks you're awesome."

"He'd be the first," I replied. "I-I mean, as Octogirl."

Spider-Man smiled. "No, I'm not telling her that!"

I laughed.

But, suddenly, Spider-Man's face dimmed, or, at least, the whites of his eyes drooped. "Is it that serious?"

I stepped up. Serious had to mean me, too. "What?"

Spider-Man listened for a minute, then glanced at me. "I got it. I'll . . . I'll be right there." He hung up, and I waited him to speak first. "How far's your house?"

"Kinda by 108th," I said lightly, studying his face. My foot ached, but I shoved it to the back of my mind. "What's up? Does your friend know about—well, obviously he knows, stupid question. Is he in trouble? Can we help?"

Spider-Man swore. "Ah, crap. Look, Ceph, I'm about to make a huge asshole outta myself. Do you think you could . . . get home yourself? I wouldn't if this wasn't an emergency, but my friend needs my help, and I needed to get to his house, like, yesterday. Do you think—"

"It's fine," I said immediately, and my foot throbbed to remind me that, no, it wasn't, walking would suck. "It's not like I'm going to get mugged looking like this." I gestured to myself, and added the silent _again_ in my head. I wondered if Spider-Man would remember me, if he even got that good of a look. "It'll be fine, Spidey. Whatever you're dealing with is top priority."

"Are-are you sure? Because—"

"Jesus Christ, if you have this much of an emotional dilemma over every decision, it's amazing you've made it this far without a sidekick in the first place. Just, please, go. I don't need anything else on my conscience tonight, thank you very much." I blew out a breath.

"Okay," Spider-Man said slowly, and he attached a web to the apartment building across the street. "See you soon, Octogirl."

"Bye, Spider-Man," I whispered, and he was gone. Even though I was slightly miffed about the ditch, when he waved at me as he swung down Queens Boulevard, it made me smile and blush hard.

Then I started my long walk home. It had been a long night, after all, and I still had homework to do, not to mention find out home many washes it took to get the smell of pee off of you.

~oOo~

 **Finally, some action! Thank God. Even I was getting bored.**

 **Anywho, who else loved Spider-Man: Homecoming? I really did. In fact, I'm going to see it again tomorrow. It was hella good, and I'm VERY happy with how Michelle came out, and just the movie in general. The only thing was the lack of action scenes that I hadn't seen in the trailer . . . but that's okay! Minor, very minor.**

 **Soon, very soon, we will be introduced to our villain. But since I don't know who that is yet, you'll find out soon after I do.**

 **Review, please!**


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